The Games
by Ruby Princess of the Rose
Summary: Hunger Games/SPN AU. Sam's name gets called in the 74th Hunger Games instead of Peeta's. Dean volunteers. Forced to work with a man she's barely even spoken to-that's just as blunt as she is-will Katniss be able to survive? With no love story to stand on, can Katniss even make it to the arena? T for violence/language. Photo credit: Domenique2(Deviantart) & cluelessakemi(tumblr)
1. Chapter 1

A lonely breeze whispers through the clearing. I breathe in time with it, my muscles tense. Just as I make the decision to release the bow sting from my curled fingers, my prey stiffens. The scrawny deer barely has time to flinch before a deadly spear sinks deep into its throat. I lower my arrow as a tall, muscular man moves silently into the clearing. I see his green eyes flash above his strong jawline and recognize him instantly.

Dean Winchester.

I have known him my entire life. I grew up, like him, in the Seam of District Twelve. He is two years older than me and my best friend, Gale Hawthorn. Dean is also the only one as brave or as stupid as me and Gale. Dean, Gale, and I are the only ones who dare to venture beyond the electric fence surrounding our starving District to hunt. We all know that the consequence for it is death, but we all have mouths to feed—and we all know how to persuade the Peacekeepers with some fresh meat.

Gale and I work together, as we always have. I support my mother and my little sister, Prim, since my father died in the mine explosion a few years back. Gale's father also died in that explosion, so Gale was left to care for his mother, brothers, and sister. All Dean had to take care of was himself and his brother, Sam.

Dean and Sam's parents were the tragic scandal of District Twelve. Rumor had it that their mother, Mary Winchester, had fled one night, when Sam was only six months old. There was a terrible fire that night, burning down the Winchesters' house and everything they owned, which wasn't much. The Peacekeepers reassigned them another home, but that wasn't enough for John Winchester. John claimed that his wife had been taken. A few months later, John left. He packed a bag in the middle of the night, and left his sons behind. He went beyond the fence in search of his wife, and never came home.

Dean had been only four years old.

John had left him with as much food as he could, but it wasn't two days later when little Dean showed up at my mother's door, haphazardly holding a squirming baby Sam. My mother, the healer of the Seam, had taken them in. Dean and Sam continued to live in the house that they had been assigned so the Peacekeepers wouldn't send them to the horrific orphanage, but my parents, as well as Gale's, helped feed Dean and care for Sam until Dean got older.

Dean is very much like me, however, and he hates owing people. When my and Gale's fathers died, Dean fed our families for months before my hatred of favors propelled me to my father's old hunting gear. Now, Dean supports his family the way that Gale and I do: no handouts, no favors, just the forest and his own skill. Gale traps, I use my bow, and Dean uses his own handmade spears and knives.

We stay so much out of one another's way that I've never really spoken to him. Not at the schoolyard, where he and Sam have taken to studying alone together, not even at the Hob, where Dean charms Greasy Sae with a wink and a rare flash of a smile.

"Catnip."

My nickname jolts my from my thoughts. I blink myself back to reality, where Dean and the deer are long gone. Gale trudges up beside me, shaking mud from his boots and holding a fistful of traps, each one laden with a dead squirrel or raccoon.

"If you want to hunt any more, you'd better make it quick," Gale warns. "We shouldn't even be at the Hob today, so we have to go now."

I nod, gathering my small pile of birds and squirrels that I have already shot today. That deer would have made a great addition, rare as they are, but my mother and Prim won't be hungry for at least a couple of days.

I carry the game to the hollow, fallen tree where I hide my bow and arrows. Gale stuffs his traps beside my gear, and gathers his own game. We walk together in silence, both stuck in deep thought.

"Wait," Gale warns as we eventually approach the fence. "There are more Peacekeepers out, we have to be careful."

"Stupid reaping," I hiss back.

The reaping for the annual Hunger Games had the entire District in a frenzy. It was a day away, and everyone except the Peacekeepers was already inside for the evening, a good hour before the sun set. Gale and I stick to the outside of the Seam, hugging the fence and hiding our game as we make our way to the Hob.

"Katniss," Greasy Sae greets me. "Soup?"

"Please," I say. "Gale and I would love some."

Greasy Sae's soup was far from good, but it was a hot meal. Gale and I trade our game fairly quickly, and exchange a couple of coins each for the soup. I look around the Hob as I eat, trying to decide what to bring my family for dinner, and I spot him.

Dean Winchester.

His own bowl of soup lay, half neglected, as he pours over the same old journal that he and Sam study from at school. His cup, however, is far from empty. That's one thing about Dean that I can't understand, is how he can trade precious game or spend what little money he has on alcohol. Then again, I've always found the habit disgusting.

Dean's forest green eyes flit up to meet mine, as if he can feel me watching him. I swallow hard, but keep my gaze steady. The corner of his pink lips tugs up slightly, and he gives me a small nod. I jerk my head back a bit, acknowledging his greeting before returning to my soup.

"What' wrong?" Gale asks me. "Not hungry?"

I stare at his empty bowl before looking at my own soup, still steaming.

"Just waiting for it to cool down," I respond.

It's a lame excuse. I know what it is to be hungry, to not care if the food you're shoveling into your mouth is hot or cold or even on fire. So does Gale. But, thankfully, he says nothing more on the subject.

"Well hurry up," he says. "We should get home."

I nod, and drain my soup in a few quick gulps. I thank Greasy Sae, and follow Gale out onto the street. We walk together, again in silence, as we make our way across the Square and back home.

"Are you nervous for the reaping?" I finally ask.

"Not really."

"How many times is your name in this year?"

"Enough," Gale replies quietly. "Enough to feed my family."

Every child in every District has to put their names into the reaping from ages twelve to eighteen. Every year, one boy and one girl from each of the twelve Districts are chosen to be tributes. The tributes then fight against one another to the death in a televised event: the Hunger Games. The more times someone put their name in a reaping, the more rations of grain and oil they were able to receive, through tesserae. Gale and I put our names in as many times as possible, every single year.

"How many times, Gale?" I ask quietly.

"Forty-two," he responds. "You?"

"Twenty," I whisper. "Are you scared you'll be chosen?"

"Maybe," he responds.

I wait for him to elaborate, but before he can, a pair of bright green eyes looms down on us from underneath a mop of shaggy, brown hair. Sam Winchester materializes out of thin air, like a ghost in the rapidly darkening twilight.

"Hey," he says. "Have you guys seen Dean?"

Sam is two years younger than me, but over a foot taller. His face still holds its childlike roundness, but he grows like a weed. Dean treats him like a child, but Sam is already taller than Dean, and almost as strong. Dean never takes Sam hunting, or to the Hob. From the whispered arguments I've overheard between them over the years, Dean refuses to put Sam in danger by allowing him to do anything even remotely illegal. Sam, however, has always hated that Dean treats him like a child. I sympathize with Sam, but thinking of my own sister, I understand Dean's reasoning perfectly.

"No," I say. "Sorry, Sam. Go wait for him at home, he'll be there soon."

"He always comes home," Gale adds.

We all know what it's like to have a parent not come home, so this comment lingers for a moment before Sam shakes his head.

"Thanks, Gale, but it's not that," he says. "I think Dean took a book of mine."

"Oh, the journal," I say without thinking.

Sam's intelligent green eyes snap onto my face, focusing on my own eyes with unsettling intensity. His eyebrows knit together as he considers me.

"Yeah, the journal," he affirms. "It's old, brown, we study it at school all the time. Have you seen it? Does he have it?"

"Sam," Gale sighs, "go home. Dean will be home soon. He doesn't want anything to happen to you. I'm sure he just borrowed the journal to do some schoolwork."

"I know he wants me to wait at home," Sam said, frustrated. "It's just…that was my dad's journal, and I found it."

I am stunned at Sam sharing such personal information with me and Gale, especially in such a public place, but Sam has always been much more willing to share favors and information than Dean.

"Your dad's journal?" Gale asks, frowning in concentration.

"Yeah, we've been studying it for the past couple of months," Sam says, starting to get worked up. "I found it. Dean was out hunting one day, and I was just sitting at home like always when I heard a window slam shut and I found it on the kitchen table."

"What?" Gale asks, confused.

"I know it sounds odd," Sam says, running his fingers through his long hair. "But when I looked out the window, I swear I saw a man walking away. He turned at the end of the street so I ran out after him, but I lost him in the crowd at the Square. He was wearing all black, too."

"Are you sure you didn't just imagine it?" Gale asks, in a brotherly tone that manages not to be condescending.

"Well that's what I thought too," Sam says with a sigh, "but then I started reading the journal."

Gale and I wait for Sam to elaborate, but all he does is stare at us for an uncomfortable amount of time. Just as I am about to drag him back to his house, myself, Sam decides to continue, in a hushed tone.

"I know what happened to my mom," he whispers. "My dad was right. She didn't run away. She didn't set the fire. She was taken."

"By who?" I ask.

"Not who," Sam says. "What."

"By what, then?" Gale asks, obviously annoyed.

"By the same thing my dad left to go hunt," Sam says, "by a d-"

Before Sam can finish, a pair of fists grabs the front of his jacket roughly. Gale and I react instinctively, both of us reaching out to protect the other. After a moment, we recognize the assailant by his low, gruff voice.

"What are you doing, Sam?" He demands.

Dean. The stench of alcohol hits me, and even though I can't see his face in the darkness, I know it's him.

"You left me," Sam protests, trying to pry Dean's hands from his jacket. "And you took Dad's journal."

"I was studying it, Sam," Dean retorts. "And even so, it's none of your business. I told you to stay at home. You stay home and wait for me, that's the rule. You stay home, you stay out of trouble, and you wait for me."

"It's my responsibility, Dean," Sam nearly shouts. "I found it. Dad gave it to me!"

"Quiet down," Dean says in a deadly quiet tone. "Dad didn't give this to you. Dad's gone, all right? He didn't just sneak back into the District to leave you a journal of his."

"It's full of dates and stories and information, since the day that Mom was taken up until—"

"Mom left," Dean interrupts. "Mom left, burned our shit down, and then, Dad left. It's just you and me, Sam. It's always been you and me, and it always will be. Dad didn't leave you the journal."

"Then how did it get there?" Sam demands.

"You know what Sam?" Dean releases Sam, who nearly falls back into Gale with the sudden movement. "What if Dad did leave it there? Huh? What if he did? He just left again. He doesn't want you, or me, okay? He left us. So we are not going to go out beyond the fence, illegally, and get ourselves killed or worse, searching for this man who left us in the first place."

I wince at Dean's voice. His voice has risen to a shout, and Gale and I are now effectively caught in the middle of a very sensitive family argument. As if following my thought pattern, Dean lets out a long sigh before turning to Sam with a different approach.

"Look," Dean says evenly. "It's late, we've forced way too much of our personal shit on these nice people—sorry, by the way—"

"No need to apologize," Gale says quickly. "We just want to be getting home. Come on, Katniss."

Gale grabs my elbow in exactly the way that Dean grabs Sam's. Sam and I lock eyes for a moment as we are ushered away in different directions.

"Sorry, Katniss," Sam murmurs.

The Winchesters disappear into the night beside me, their whispered bickering fading rapidly as Gale pulls me onto our street, and walks me to my front door.


	2. Chapter 2

Prim's nightmares keep us sleeping fitfully all night, but eventually, the sun creeps up over the horizon.

I look over in the grey light of early dawn to see her clutched tight against our mother's chest. Envy pangs through my chest. After my father died, my mother couldn't be bothered to even feed us, let alone comfort me.

We were starving. Dean's kindness was the only thing that kept us from starving. For months, my mother sat, day after day, unmoving. She stared out the window toward the mine, as if willing my father to come home, while her children starved around her.

It was her numb indifference that finally drove me into the woods. My anger at her forced me to pick up my father's old bows, and follow Dean's tracks to the best hunting spots beyond the fence.

Now, I am independent of my mother. We are still poor and starving, but at least now, Prim is fed. She has her own goat to make cheese from, and her ugly cat, Buttercup. I despise him, with his mashed-in nose and missing eye, but so long as he feeds himself and stays out of my way, I tolerate him.

My mother, however, I prefer to keep at arm's length. She wasn't there when I needed her, and I will never allow myself to depend on her again.

A small whimper from Prim pulls me back into the rapidly approaching day. Silently, I stretch, and decide to bathe myself.

The reaping is a formal event, and everyone is expected to present their best selves in front of the cameras. Prim and my mother bathed last night. I was supposed to, as well, but after the run-in with Dean and Sam, I went straight to bed once I got home.

The cool water feels good against my skin as I scrub the dirt and grime of the forest and my own night sweats from my body. By the time I am finished, my mother and Prim have started breakfast. I head back to my bed to get dressed, and find one of my mother's old, precious dresses laid out on my bed for me.

"Do you like it?" My mother's quiet voice asks from behind me. "I wore it to my own final reaping when I was eighteen."

"It's beautiful," I manage, a sudden lump in my throat. "Thank you."

She helps me into it, doing up the intricate buttons while I brush out my hair and braid it off to the side.

"I wish your name wasn't in so many times," my mother whispers, her fingers lingering against my back.

"That's the only way I can feed us," I say.

"Katniss—"

The hurt in my mother's eyes drops guilt like a stone in my stomach, but Prim's sudden entrance cuts off my mother's comment.

"Breakfast is ready, Katniss," Prim says.

"Look at you," I say, admiring Prim's crisp, white dress before embracing her. "You look so pretty."

"You look beautiful, Katniss," Prim says, stepping back to smile at me.

"You've got to tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, reaching back to tuck in the middle of her shirt in the back, a spot that she always misses.

"Thanks, Katniss," she says with a smile.

"You girls should eat," my mother says softly. "You've got to get to the reaping soon."

We eat in a tense silence. The entire district was to be at the reaping, watching in the Square. All the shops close, and every child between the ages of twelve and eighteen has to check in with the Peacekeepers before the reaping. Then, they line us up by age in front of the Capitol building in the Square. This is going to be Prim's first year in the reaping, so this year, she will accompany me to the lines rather than go with my mother to the edge of the Square to watch.

"It's almost time," my mother eventually whispers.

Prim swallows hard, having barely touched her goat cheese or berries.

"Don't worry, little duck," I say, ushering Prim to the door, "your name's only in once."

"Yeah, but yours isn't," she says worriedly.

I have no response for that, so I take her hand and lead her through the streets. We walk together through the stifling crowd of people, and get pushed fairly quickly through the check-in. Prim squeezes my hand and I hug her before sending her to stand with the other kids in her class.

I stand with the girls of my own age, immediately spotting Gale among the boys our age, across a small aisle that runs through the middle of the square. One of his little brothers, Rory, stands with the fourteen year old boys. His other brother, Vick, and sister, Posy, are only eight and three. They stand with their mother, Hazelle, watching Gale and Rory nervously. My mother quietly appears next to them, picking up a fussy Posy in a way that makes my stomach burn.

Gale catches my eye and attempts to smile, but I can tell that it's forced. Instinctively, he and I look at Prim and Rory once more. I see a mop of shaggy, brown hair talking nervously to a clearly terrified Rory and recognize Sam Winchester. On impulse, I glance behind me at the eighteen year old boys and see the bright, silent eyes of Dean.

I swallow and look back at the stage before us as the spectacle begins.

"Seventy-four years ago," an ominous voice booms as an introduction, "a great war ended."

Massive televisions in the Square play the same Capitol propaganda as every other year, a brief history of the Hunger Games.

"The rebellion of the districts nearly wiped out all of Panem," the voice continued, showing images of destruction. "One of our districts was lost. After the war's end, the Capitol and the Districts formed a solution. To honor those who have fallen, and to remind us all that out precious peace is so fragile, we fight. We participate in the annual Hunger Games!"

The clip goes on, but I stop listening. The Capitol discourages rebellion, and paints tributes in a heroic and vital light. Gale hates these ideas. I've heard him rant about them time and time again, and while I don't entirely agree with him, on reaping days, I see what he means.

The Capitol encourages volunteering as tribute, or as Gale puts it, volunteering to die. In the richer districts, children train their entire lives, waiting to volunteer and bring honor to their district. When a tribute wins a Hunger Games, they live in a rich village in their district called Victor's Village. Their district also gets more rations for the next year, and the victors mentor future tributes.

Our district only has one living victor: Haymitch Abernathy. He is also the town drunk. He sits on the stage, barely conscious, next to Effie Trinket, the Capitol representative assigned to District Twelve's reaping, and the mayor of District Twelve.

"Welcome, everyone, to the seventy-fourth Hunger Games!" Effie's clear voice rings out through the speakers across the Square as the triumphant music from the Capitol clip fades into silence. "May the odds be ever in your favor. Now, without further ado, let's begin!"

The cameras zoom in on Effie, the screens on either side of the stage replicating her image.

"Ladies first," she chirps.

The entire district seems to hold its breath as Effie strides over to one of two large, glass fish bowls filled with slips of paper. Her bright pink nails dip deep into the pile of names, piling on suspense as she chooses one. Effie walks back over to the microphone while she unfolds it.

"Primrose Everdeen."

Not a single sound follows. I feel Gale's sympathetic eyes boring into me before I even register what happened. I see Prim's small form step out from her line of girls, blue eyes full of tears.

"No," I mumble, clawing my way through the line to the aisle. "No!"

Peacekeepers move to restrain me. Desperate, I screech the only thing I can think of.

"I volunteer!" I scream. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Shock radiates through the crowd. I walk numbly toward the stage.

"A volunteer," Effie says, ecstatic, "how exciting!"

Prim screams for me as I pass her, clutching on to me. Gale steps out of line to scoop her up restrain her. I avoid his eyes as Effie chatters on, pulling me up the steps and onto the stage.

"Your name, dear," she says, clearly impatient. "Tell everyone your name."

"Katniss Everdeen," I say, still numb.

"Everdeen," Effie says, her face falling under the layers of fake Capitol makeup. "I'm guessing that was your sister?"

"Yes," I say.

"Well, what an honorable sacrifice," Effie says. "Let's give her a hand."

Effie breaks out in a series of rapid claps, but no one joins in. The sympathy in their eyes is louder than any applause.

"Well," Effie continues after a moment. "Now, for the gentlemen."

She strides to the second fishbowl and repeats her ritual. I can barely breathe. I can't believe this is real, that I volunteered.

Effie slides back in front of the microphone expertly in her ridiculous pink heels, holding the boy tribute's name in her hands..

"Samuel Winchester," she calls.

"NO," a voice roars before Sam can even move. "I VOLUNTEER!"

From all the way across the square, Dean Winchester's voice booms clearly across the crowd of people. His long, determined strides propel him quickly down the aisle.

"No!" Sam screams. "Dean! No! I volunt-"

Dean sprints to Sam, punching him swiftly in the stomach, effectively shutting him up. No one can hear what goes on between Sam and Dean, but everyone can clearly see that neither wants the other to go into the arena.

Suddenly, Dean's hand catches my eye. One of his arms is around Sam, blocking most of the prying eyes and cameras from view. The other hand slips into a pocket, and discreetly pushes the journal into Sam's arms. Their dad's journal. Sam stiffens, then concedes immediately.

Dean continues his walk up to the stage, now flanked by Peacekeepers, as Sam smoothly hides the journal under his shirt. The entire event must have taken only a few seconds, but my trained hunter's eye caught the out of place movements easily.

"Well, what an exciting turn of events," Effie says, beaming as she guides Dean to the microphone. "Two volunteers from an outlying district! I don't think this has ever happened before. What's your name, young man?"

"Dean Winchester," he says gruffly, "and before you ask, yes, that is my brother."

The possessive glint in his dark green eyes leaves no room for comment, but poor Effie tries to cover.

"Oh, the family love in this district," she says, laughing it off for the cameras. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, may I present Katniss Everdeen and Dean Winchester, the District Twelve tributes for the seventy-fourth Hunger Games!"

No applause follows. Instead, as if of one mind, everyone in our district presses their middle three fingers to their lips, and then holds them out toward me and Dean, palm out. It's the oldest sign of respect in our district, one not seen in years.

I look out among the raised hands and see Prim, my mother, and Gale standing with Hazelle, Vick, and Posy. They all look at me with tears in their eyes, which Gale especially is fighting against. Rory's small eyes catch mine, but Sam is nowhere to be seen.

I almost glance at Dean, but decide that he needs my sympathy about as much as I need his right now.

"Come, come," Effie says. "Let's see our new tributes!"

She puts an arm around each of us, guiding us to stand next to each other for the cameras and our district, still sympathetically saluting us.

Neither Dean nor I acknowledge the crowd's gesture of respect. Neither of us move, neither of us look at the other. We didn't do it for the honor, or the glory, or the chance at getting rich. We did it for our family, for their survival.

I am abnormally aware of Dean's presence, being so close to him. His dark green eyes catch mine. He gives me a slight nod, which I return. I recognize that look. It's one of respect, which I return.

"How perfect," Effie declares, before turning to me and Dean. "Well, they all see you two in the arena! Now, come."

Effie ushers us inside the Capitol building, past the Peacekeepers that guard every door, into separate rooms. This is where I will say goodbye to my family. I can't allow myself to process what happened yet. I need to be strong for them.

I'm not alone for five minutes before the doors burst open and a sobbing Prim barrels into me. I hold onto her for dear life as I address my mother.

"Katniss—" she starts, her eyes watery.

"Don't," I interrupt. "Listen to me. You can't shut down like last time, okay? You can't. She needs you. Dean won't be around to save us this time, and I won't be around to hunt. You have to be there. You have to."

"I know," my mother whispers.

"You can survive," I say, pressing on. "Go collect the tesserae from my entries. Gale will make sure you have fresh game. Do you understand?"

"Yes," my mother says, moving to hug me.

I let her, embracing her and Prim at the same time.

"Listen to me, Prim," I say, stroking her blonde braids as she cries. "Make your cheese, okay? From your goat. Keep yourselves fed, Gale will help you. Do not go beyond the fence, okay?"

"Katniss," she whimpers, "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," I say. "I'm glad it's me going in, and not you."

"Time's up," booms the voice of a Peacekeeper from the other side of the door.

Before we can react, the door swings open and my mother and Prim are escorted out of the room.

"You can win this, Katniss!" Prim yells, refusing to break eye contact with me.

Her cries echo in my head after the door has shut. I begin to break.

The door bursts open again. Gale stands in the doorway of the room, flushed and breathless.

"Gale!"

We embrace. His body slams into mine, his arms clutch my body like a lifeline.

"Listen to me, Katniss," he says, his voice grave. "You can do this. It's just like hunting."

"Yeah, hunting people, Gale, not animals!"

I can't stop the building tears. I feel myself growing hysterical.

"It's the same thing, when you think about it," he says darkly. "You have to. You have to come home, Katniss. You have to, okay? Promise me."

"I'll try," I say, my heart sinking. I know there's no way that I can win this.

"Promise me!"

"I promise, Gale," I say with a sob.

"Time's up," comes the booming voice again.

"Wait," Gale implores as the door opens. "I have her district token."

Each tribute is allowed one small, nonthreatening item to bring into the arena with them, something from their district. I hadn't even thought about my district token until now.

"Here," Gale says, pressing a small circle into my hand.

It's a ring of metal, painted gold, with a bird in the middle of it. I turn it over and see that it's a pin. The back side is painted in an odd star shape with flames surrounding it, all in precise lines of solid black paint.

"What is it?" I ask.

"It's from Sam," Gale says, to my immense surprise.

"Sam Winchester?" I ask.

"Yes," Gale says, shrugging off the gloved hand of the Peacekeeper behind him. "He ran all the way back to his house to get it for you. He says it's incredibly important."

"What?" I ask, confused. "Why"

"Okay, she's got her token," barks the Peacekeeper. "Time's up!"

"Dean will explain," Gale assures me, pulling me into one last, bone crushing hug. "You're going to win this, Katniss! I know it!"

The Peacekeeper grabs Gale roughly, and peels him off of me. Two more Peacekeepers stride into the room. One of them helps in extracting Gale from me. The other keeps a close eye on me, but I am too stunned to do anything but yell helplessly from the door.

"Look after my family, Gale!" I scream I watch Gale being dragged away from me. "Look after them—and Sam! Whatever you do, Gale, don't let them starve!"

Another Peacekeeper shoves me roughly away from the door before Gale can respond. The door slams in my face. A bolt slides heavily across the outside of the door, locking me in.

I am trapped. I am alone. I am going to die.

I begin to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the reaping formalities pass in a blur. I force myself to stop crying before I leave the room. It won't help me to look weak in front of the cameras, while my opponents and potential sponsors are watching my every move.

Effie escorts me to the train station that lies on the outskirts of District Twelve. I've only ever seen it used for rare Capitol shipments of Peacekeepers, and to take tributes away. Thanks to mandatory annual viewing of the Hunger Games, I know exactly what I'm in for.

First, all of the tributes will be brought to the Capitol. We'll be prepped by our individual stylists to look presentable, then we'll all be interviewed. After the formalities are over, we get to train. We'll hone skills that we think we will find useful in the arena. After a few days of that, we'll be judged. Finally, we'll get send off into the arena.

Our mentors will stay behind and advocate on our behalf for sponsors. Sponsors pay to send things to their favorite tributes in the arena. Sometimes, even a single bottle of water or the smallest bit of medicine can mean the difference between life and death.

"Ah, there they are," Effie announces, shaking my racing mind from its anxious thoughts. "The boys always end up taking longer."

Haymitch and Dean meet us halfway to the train station. Their faces are grave, although Haymitch's eyes aren't nearly as focused as Dean's are.

"Come now," says Effie, striding ahead, "we don't want to be late."

"No," Haymitch says, " _you_ don't want to be late. I wouldn't mind, and I'm sure neither of these two would mind savoring fifteen more precious minutes before they get sent to their deaths."

"Haymitch Abernathy," Effie scolds, clearly embarrassed. "We are on television!"

"Yeah," Haymitch nearly growls, eyeing the cameras that follow our every move, "I'm well aware, Effie. We are every year."

"But this year, we're surely being watched," Effie presses. "Two volunteers from Twelve! Can you imagine? There's sure to be quite a stir back home."

"Yeah," Haymitch says, eyeing me and Dean warily, "that's what I'm afraid of."

We board the train quickly, avoiding the cameras as Effie and a few surly Peacekeepers escort us through the train. Haymitch beelines for his compartment, shutting the door on all of us without a word.

"Ignore him," Effie sniffs. "Now, let's see your compartments. You'll have a toilet and a small shower right there in your compartment. It's not much, but hopefully, it will hold you over until we arrive at the Capitol later tonight. Oh, and an Avox will be available for anything else you may need."

Effie gestures to a young girl wearing all red, staring silently at the floor. An Avox. Avoxes are people who have committed some heinous crime against the Capitol and had their tongues cut out. They live as servants to the Capitol, and any disobedience results in their death. It's a horrible existence.

I empathize with the Avox girl in front of me. Both of us were taken against our will to serve the Capitol, her with labor and me with entertainment, with no hope of escape other than death.

I cut off Effie's rambling speech about the engineering of the train and practically hurl myself into the compartment she's designated as mine. I hear Effie's affronted tone, slowly vanishing as she walks down the hall. Another compartment door slams shut, probably Dean's.

I am alone.

I take a shower. I am not used to having hot water on command, or the fancy shower heads that spray water at different speeds. I feel guilty, almost like I should be nostalgic for the old, wooden bathtub we have back home, but I'm not.

I let wave after wave of scalding water pour over my skin, as if to sear the horrible events of the day from my body. If nothing else, it calms me. The heat and pain ground me, and I emerge with a much better grip on my emotions.

My mother's dress has disappeared from the floor where I had left it. A sharp pang of regret pierces my chest. I look all around my compartment, but there is nothing. Even my underwear has been taken. In its place, plain black clothes lie folded on my bed, the small pin that is to be my district token sitting neatly on top of them.

I dress quickly, messily braiding my wet hair in the process, and leave my compartment. I search for an Avox or someone to tell me where my mother's dress has gone, but instead, I find everyone at dinner. Well, everyone except Haymitch.

"Oh, Katniss," Effie chirps. "I see you've found your shower. Good. Now, where _is_ Haymitch?"

"He went to take a nap," Dean grunts, "last I saw, anyway."

"Well, we'll just have to start without him," Effie says with a sniff.

Course after course of rich, delicious food pours out of the kitchen compartment and onto the table. I've never seen such delectable food before, and I know Dean hasn't, either. We both gorge ourselves, much to Effie's dismay. By the time they bring out dessert, I am stuffed to bursting for the first time in my life.

"What's this?" Dean asks, gesturing to the steaming, circular dish in the middle.

"It's pie," Effie says indulgently. "It's delicious, have some."

"It looks like berries stuffed in bread," Dean says skeptically.

"Sort of," Effie allows, "but made from sweeter dough than bread is. Go on, try it."

Dean nearly passes it up, but at Effie's insistence, both Dean and I try a hesitant bite. The sweet cherries dance on my tongue like no wild berries I've ever had. The dough is warm, flaky, and sweet. It's easily the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. I look over at Dean and have to suppress a sudden smile.

His face is relaxed in an expression of pure bliss. His eyes are halfway closed, and a bit of cherry clings to the corner of his lips. It's only been a moment since we tried our first bite of pie together, and Dean's slice is already gone, leaving only a few crumbs and a smear of cherry juice in its wake. Against my better judgment, I giggle.

His eyes snap open and he regards me defensively, looking offended at the remaining pie on my own plate.

"What?" He demands. "It's good!"

"It is," I agree. "I'm so full, but I can't stop eating it."

Dean smiles approvingly as I continue to stuff bites of pie into my engorged stomach.

"Good," he says, "because there might not be much left after I'm done."

"Heavens!" Effie exclaims as Dean cuts himself a second, massive slice of pie.

"What?" Dean asks again, shoveling pie carelessly into his mouth. "It's not like they have this in our district."

"No, I guess not," Effie agrees quietly. "Well, bring your pie into the next compartment. We can watch the recap of the tributes so you two can scope out the competition."

At this, the lighthearted moment vanishes instantly. Dean regards me with steely eyes, the pie staining his mouth now looking eerily like blood. Suddenly done with the pie, I rise quickly from the table and lead the way into the compartment with a television almost as massive as the screens in the Square.

"Oh, let's get some tea served in here," Effie says, clearly oblivious to our shift in mood.

The tributes selection passes in a blur for me. It starts with the Careers, kids from districts one through four who are wealthy and crazy enough to train for the Hunger Games their whole lives. A particularly large tribute from Two takes my breath away. It doesn't escape me that every Career tribute volunteered. They all want glory, or to die fighting for it.

A fox faced girl from Five catches my eye, her wickedly smart eyes darting from place to place even as she stood by her mentors' side. A boy with a crippled foot from Ten elicits a twinge of sympathy from me. But worst of all is a twelve year old girl from District Eleven.

Her dark skin and eyes are nothing like Prim's, but something in her innocent expression reminds me so strongly of my sister that I have to swallow a sudden lump in my throat. Only this time, no one volunteers for her.

And then we see Twelve's reaping. Prim's name gets called. She steps out of line, clearly horrified. I claw my way toward her, shoving people roughly out of my way, although I don't remember doing that. The second a Peacekeeper touches me, I scream.

"I volunteer!"

The crowd murmurs. The camera pans to me, being escorted to the stage. Prim, screaming and crying for me, thrashing in Gale's arms. Gale's face, clearly working hard to suppress emotion. My mother and sister, standing with Gale's family. All of their tears.

My face flushes presently as I feel Dean's eyes on me, but I keep my own gaze glued firmly to the television screen.

Sam's name gets called. Dean roars, his face contorting as he volunteers. He strides quickly to Sam, sprinting as Sam tries to volunteer. Dean punches Sam. They stand for a moment, arms around one another. The cameras fail to capture Dean giving Sam the journal. Peacekeepers shove Dean forward, and he strides to the stage without a backward glance.

Sam leaves. He pushes desperately through the crowd and takes off, sprinting toward home, tears clearly tracking down his thin face.

I wonder if he made it back in time to say goodbye to Dean.

I look over at Dean, but it's his turn to stare stubbornly at the screen. Intense hurt is clear in his eyes, not matter how many layers of anger he tries to cover it with.

"Did you end up saying goodbye?" I ask quietly. "To Sam, I mean."

Dean is silent for so long that I don't think he's actually going to answer me. Finally, he darts his gaze down, bowing his head slightly before making eye contact with me from the very corner of his eyes.

"No," he says, suddenly looking anywhere but at me. "That little bastard ran. I took his friggin' place in the Games, and he doesn't even come to say goodbye."

My heart pounds. What on Earth could be so important about Sam giving me a district token that he would break the law and run from the Square, and then neglect to say goodbye to Dean? The Winchesters value family over everything. The brothers are incredibly protective of one another, and everyone sees the love between them, even when they fight.

"Well, I'm sure he was just emotional," Effie says unhelpfully.

"No," Dean says firmly, still refusing to meet our eyes. "Not Sam. With me and Sam, family comes before everything. We're all we have left. Him not coming to meet me…something's wrong."

Dean's ominous statement hangs in the air for a moment before Haymitch's unsteady footfalls signal his drunken arrival. He stumbles into the compartment, reeking of alcohol.

"Did I miss supper?" He slurs.

Dean and I exchange a glance. The disgust I feel toward Haymitch is clearly mirrored on Dean's face. We just watch as Haymitch vomits all over himself, and then falls face first into the puddle of sick before him.

"This is our mentor," Dean deadpans, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "This liquor-soaked dumbass?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Effie says with a sigh. "This is your ticket to sponsors right here."

Dean and I both stare at the mess before us, trying to keep our dinners down, as Effie hops neatly over Haymitch in her pink heels and heads toward the front of the train. Begrudgingly, I kneel down by Haymitch and take one of his arms in mine. I look back at Dean, my eyebrows raised expectantly. Dean sighs, but comes forward to take Haymitch's other arm.

Together, we haul Haymitch back to his room. Neither of us are particularly in the mood to strip Haymitch down and scrub his own vomit from his body, so a pair of poor Avox boys get stuck with the task. Dean and I walk silently down the hall to our compartments. We sigh in unison.

I turn to look at Dean, suddenly realizing that we've also been walking in unison, our footfalls matching without thought. I know by the far-off expression in his eyes that Dean hasn't noticed, either. We suddenly reach my compartment. Feeling at a loss for some reason, I duck through the doorway without a word.

The door barely closes behind me before it swings open again.

"We need to talk," Dean says, letting himself in.

I nod. He moves to sit on my bed without invitation. I choose to remain standing.

"I know you," Dean begins. "You're like me, in a lot of ways. You volunteered for Prim. That's very noble of you. But you didn't do it for the nobility of it, and neither did I. We did it because we would rather die than watch our siblings play the Games."

I nod again. We both know that. I'm not sure why he's stating the obvious.

"Now here's the bitch of it," he continues with a heavy sigh. "I grew up with you. Your parents helped me, helped raise Sammy. I can't just pretend that didn't happen."

"You don't owe us anything," I say. "You don't owe me anything. When my dad died, you fed me and Prim, and my mother. My mother checked out, and you were the only one making sure we stayed alive. You taught Gale how to hunt, too. He taught me, so I could feed my family."

"We helped each other," he says.

"So, we're even," I say.

"Well," Dean says, pausing for a moment. "What if we do that again?"

"Do what?"

"Help each other," he says. "In the games. We can team up. People do that all the time."

"Why would you do that?" I blurt out. "There can only be one victor."

"Yes," Dean says, "but I'll be damned if one of us isn't going to win. Hazelle and her kids, your mom and Prim, and Sammy…we're almost like a big, messed up, extended family sometimes. They can't take losing both of us."

"I know," I say. "But the Careers—"

"We can take 'em," he interjects, "if we work together. We're hunters. We know how to be silent, how to hide, how to track, how to kill, how to live off the land."

"So say we survive," I say, crossing my arms. "What if it ends up being just you and me, at the end? What if one of us has to kill the other."

A tense pause spans between us.

"I have to get back to Sammy," he says gravely, "and you have to get back to Prim. So, if it's just us, then—"

He runs a hand through his hair, cutting himself off with a sigh.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," he says, standing abruptly.

"Fair enough," I allow, sitting tenderly on my bed as Dean paces across my compartment.

"Maybe I'll just let you win," he says with a mirthless smile. "That little bastard didn't even come back to say goodbye."

The pin is suddenly heavy in my pocket.

"He went back home," I say.

"Yeah, I know," Dean says shortly, "I saw him run from the Square."

"He went to bring me this," I say, holding the pin out to Dean.

"What?"

He strides quickly over to me, his bright eyes intently focused on the pin. His brows furrow as he closely examines it.

"A mockingjay?" He asks.

"A pin. My district token, apparently," I clarify. "Sam ran all the way home to get it, and bring it to Gale. Gale came in to see me and gave it to me."

"Why?" Dean asked, a bit harshly.

"Gale said that you'd explain," I say.

"Explain what?" Dean's stare almost makes me feel stupid. "Explain a mockingjay?"

"I know what a mockingjay is," I retort.

Long ago, the capitol had created birds called jabberjays that had the ability to repeat entire conversations, to be used as spies. They were effective, but the Capitol only engineered males, to have a firm control on the population. What they didn't expect was for jabberjays to mate with female mockingbirds, and produce mockingjays.

"Then what am I supposed to explain?" Dean asks angrily.

"I don't know," I nearly spit back, frustrated, "maybe the star on fire?"

Dean gives me a confused, irritated look. I rip the pin from his hands and thrust it back toward his face, the back of it facing him. The odd symbol immediately registers with him, as his face goes slack for a moment before contorting in anger.

"DAMN IT, SAM!" Dean roars, putting his fist through the thin metal wall of my compartment.

I catch a glimpse of Haymitch's compartment through the new hole in the wall before I turn to stare at Dean.

"God damn it," Dean says again, pacing again in his fury.

"You recognize the symbol," I say. "So explain it."

"I can't just explain it," Dean says.

"Why not?" I say.

"You wouldn't believe me if I did," he says darkly.

"I would," I respond. "You wouldn't lie to me. Not after everything we've been through, not with what we're facing together."

"Well, it's a lot to take in," Dean says. "And you'd have to trust me on a lot of it."

"Isn't that what we're doing," I ask with a half smirk, "trusting each other?"

Dean stops in his tracks, his intense eyes studying me. My spine tingles, as if I am prey being watched by its predator. I hold his gaze, regarding him with a neutral expression.

"I guess it is, kid," he says, coming over to sit next to me on the bed.

"Katniss," I say immediately.

"Katniss," he concedes, "Well, let's start with the symbol. It's a protection symbol. As long as you have it on you, you're safe."

"Safe from what?" I ask.

"That's where it gets complicated," Dean says.

A long moment passes before he continues, but I simply stare at the side of his head, waiting.

"Against the people that killed my mother," he finally whispers.

"What?" I say, bewildered. "She died in a fire."

"Yeah, a fire that they set," Dean says. "She was in Sammy's room, in his nursery, and the house caught on fire from that room. They targeted her, and nearly killed Sammy. My dad pulled him from the crib, and placed him in my arms. He ran back to save my mom. I carried Sam from the burning house."

"I didn't know that," I say numbly.

"Yeah," Dean says. "We were fine, but my dad couldn't save my mom. The three of us moved in with my dad's work friend, Bobby. Bobby and my dad used to hunt together beyond the fence. Bobby used to tell these crazy stories about how his wife was killed by these people. My dad never believed him, until that day."

"It was the same people that killed your mom," I say.

Dean nods.

"So, what happened to your dad, then?" I ask. "He left to go find them? And why haven't I ever met Bobby?"

"My dad left a couple months later, after learning everything he could from Bobby," Dean explains. "Bobby had been studying them for years, and had a lead, but it wasn't solid. A few months passed, and Dad had promised he'd be back in a couple of weeks. So, Bobby went looking for him. Again, he promised he'd only be a few weeks. He never came back."

"That's when you came to my mother and Hazelle," I guess.

"Yeah," Dean says tightly, "couple of weeks later. Bobby had left me with all of the dandelion salad and katniss root that I could stomach, as much game as he could, and all the money he had. But I was only four or five at that time. Sammy wasn't even one. We would have starved. I gave your parents and Gale's parents all the money Bobby had left me. It still wasn't enough."

"You would have died," I say. "We were all glad to help. We didn't know about Bobby. None of us knew how you raised Sammy for months."

"I couldn't stand the crying," Dean said with a sad smile. "I didn't know how to help. I would cry, too. I was alone. All I had was Sammy. The last thing my dad ever said to me was, 'look out for Sam. Protect Sam. I'll be back.' So, I did."

A heavy silence falls over us once again as I absorb everything. I can clearly see how difficult it was for him to open up to me. I also know that this is a test. He's seeing if he can trust me with his past, so he can trust me with his future in the arena. I mull over what he said, putting the pieces of his story into my own memories of our past.

"But," I say, breaking the silence, "why do we need protection against these people in the arena? Shouldn't we have left the protection back in Twelve, with our families?"

"Well," Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "you already know about the journal. According to the notes in there, whoever wrote it, these…people…have a new operation set up in the Capitol. They participate in the Games and kill people that way."

"How?"

"Some are Game Makers," he says, laying back on the bed with his eyes closed, "some are actually in the arena."

"That's not possible," I say. "We'd have seen them. The Games are televised every year, there are cameras all over every arena."

"But who controls what we see on the cameras?" He asks.

"The Game Makers," I say, realizing his point.

"Bingo," he says, pointing at me with his eyes still closed. "So every time we see a tribute about to die, and they cut the scene because it's 'too violent,' or the 'footage is missing,' or the 'camera got destroyed,' it's really these people killing tributes. According to the journal, anyway. But whoever wrote it seems to have legit info."

"You don't think it's you dad's?" I ask.

"Sammy does," he clarifies, "I don't. If my dad was still alive, he'd have come back. And not to drop a journal and go. He'd have come back for us."

I nod. I can understand his feelings of abandonment, although his suffering has years on mine.

"So, how does this symbol protect us against these super powerful people?" I ask, skeptical.

Dean hesitates, but before he can finally answer me, Effie's voice floats in from the hallway.

"Come, come," she chirps. "We're nearly here, come out!"

Dean jumps up, obviously glad for the interruption. I sigh and follow him, pocketing my pin discreetly.

"Oh, good," Effie says. "This is just what we need, our tributes bonding, forming a friendship on their own."

Dean and I exchange a glance, but Effie fails to notice.

"Come with me," she insists, "let's go to the window. You two can see the Capitol as we approach."

We comply, glad for the distraction. It's nearly dark out, but the faint light of dusk is just enough for us to see the hoard of people flooding the train station. They jostle one another, desperate for a glimpse of us. Dean and I stare stonily out the window at them, ignoring their excited waves.

All too quickly, the train stops at the platform. My stomach sinks.

We've arrived at the Capitol.


	4. Chapter 4

Effie leads me, Dean, and Haymitch through the train station at the Capitol. Cameras and Capitol citizens flood us, but I simply anchor my eyes to Effie's ridiculous pink wig and follow her strides. Everyone in the Capitol looks unnatural after multiple alterations and surgeries. Some people look animalistic, some are bursting with sickeningly bright color, none of them look like real people.

We reach the training center, which houses all of the tributes, as well as the training areas. Since we are the last district to arrive, everyone has already retired for the night. We silently take an elevator to the twelfth floor, and dissipate into our individual rooms.

I sleep fitfully all night, not looking forward to meeting with my stylist in the morning. Nightmares plague what little sleep I am able to get, as I imagine myself the product of horrendous surgeries and eventually stop recognizing myself.

The next morning, I join Effie and Haymitch for breakfast. Dean arrives at the table shortly after I do, water droplets still clinging to his hair from his evident morning shower. He glances briefly at me with tight eyes before taking his seat.

"All right," he says immediately. "We start with interviews and all that bullshit today, right? And tomorrow starts training?"

"Not quite, tonight is the opening ceremony," Effie says. "Now, your stylists—"

"Yeah, that's not the part I'm concerned with," Dean interrupts. "I'm sure they'll make us look real pretty, and I'm sure there's some kind of coaching session on how to act during the opening later today, right?"

"There is," says Effie with a sniff.

"Yeah, I figured," Dean says shortly. "What I'm interested in is how to stay alive once we actually get in the arena."

He's looking at Haymitch, but Haymitch is focused on the red liquid he's sipping from a flask. I can tell it's some kind of alcohol, and I'm appalled at his early morning drinking.

"You're supposed to give us advice," Dean presses.

"You want advice?" Haymitch asks with a mirthless smirk. "Stay alive."

A moment passes as Dean stares at him, unbelieving. Then, his mouth flits up in a similar smirk before he pulls back and punches Haymitch in the jaw. Haymitch's flask falls and shatters. Haymitch regards this for a moment before swinging back at Dean, who deflects the blow. Nearly growling, Haymitch sits back down and reaches for a similar flask on the table before him. Without hesitation, I drive my knife into the table between two of his fingers.

"That is mahogany!" Effie squawks indignantly. We all ignore her.

"What's this?" Haymitch asks, staring at the knife and rubbing his jaw. "Did I get a couple of fighters this year?"

"Well, we're not about to just sit there and be killed," Dean says hotly.

"No, I suppose not," Haymitch responds absently before turning to me. "Can you hit anything besides the table with that knife?"

"Her weapon is a bow and arrow," Dean says. "She's deadly accurate, kills game with clean shots through the eye. I've seen her take down a squirrel that way from a few dozen yards out."

"Dean's just as good with a spear," I cut in. "Better, probably. He's been hunting longer, and he's used to bringing down bigger game. He's also good with a knife, he makes all his own weapons."

"Well, all right," Haymitch says, eyeing us up and down. "Here's the deal I'm willing to make with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you."

"All right," Dean agrees, "but if you get wasted like yesterday again, I'll kick your ass from here to Thirteen and back. And I'll get rid of all your alcohol."

"I said I'd stay sober enough, didn't I?" Haymitch grinds out. "And here's my condition: you two have to do exactly as I say. And the first thing you'll do is comply with anything your stylists want to do to you. You won't like it, but don't resist, no matter what it is."

"But—" I begin.

"No buts," Haymitch says, reaching for the remaining flask once more. "Don't resist."

A tense pause passes as we all take our seats again, accepting the fragile agreement.

"Now that that's settled, let's eat," Effie pipes up. "And let me tell you what you're in for today."

I focus more on my breakfast than Effie, sharing silent delight with Dean as we try a sweet, dark liquid called hot chocolate. All too soon, however, the Peacekeepers arrive to escort me and Dean to our stylists.

I'm ushered into a plain grey room with a shower and instructed to strip and shower. Different soaps and bottles of what seems to be liquid soap line a shelf in the shower. There's even soap for my hair. I scrub my body, feeling odd doing it for the second time in two days, especially with no dirt or mud caked on my skin.

No sooner do I step out of the shower than three people burst into the room. A woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos introduces herself as Venia, a guy with orange hair and purple lipstick as Flavius, and a plump woman whose entire body is vibrant green as Octavia.

"We're your prep team," Octavia explains. "We're here to prep you for Cinna, your stylist."

I don't respond, but simply nod, trying to stop myself from blushing as they all eye my naked body. They guide me to a long chair where I sit for over three hours while they work on me. Venia places strips of fabric with hot wax on my body, and rips the hair from my legs, arms, and armpits, among other odd areas. Flavius wields tweezers, plucking certain hairs from my eyebrows before Venia waxes my upper lip. Octavia attacks my fingernails and toenails with a pair of silver clippers.

Finally, it appears that they are through. They step back to admire their work.

"You look like a human being now," says Flavius, making them all laugh.

"Thank you," I say, trying to show them gratitude. "We don't have many reasons to look nice in Twelve."

They nearly swoon, assuring me that Cinna will make me look gorgeous. I am handed a robe, and they leave to summon Cinna. I comb my fingers through my hair, which Octavia had also trimmed. It isn't much shorter, but the frayed ends are now gone.

The door opens, and a man who I assume to be Cinna walks in. Much to my surprise, he seems almost unaltered, with natural looking short, brown hair, smooth brown skin, and handsome green eyes. The only make-up he wears is a thin band of gold eyeliner, which is nothing short of striking on him.

"Hello, Katniss," he says, slowly circling me. "I'm Cinna, your stylist."

"Hello," I reply, suddenly nervous.

He continues to regard me from every angle, unsettling me further.

"You're new, aren't you?" I blurt out.

"This is my first year in the Games, yes," he says with a smile.

"So they gave you Twelve," I say.

"I asked for Twelve," he says, finally coming to a stop and facing me. "So, Katniss, the opening ceremonies are tonight. I began your costume concept after the reaping, and now that your prep team has your measurements, we'll begin working on it. It's going to be a stretch, but I think we can do it by tonight."

"What will I be wearing?" I ask.

"My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Dean," he says. "Our concept is to dress you in complementary costumes, while still paying homage to your home district."

This is customary for the opening ceremonies, wearing something that ties into your district's principal industry. For Eleven, it's agriculture, Four is fishing, Three is factories, and so on. Twelve is mining.

"So, we'll be dressed up as coal miners?" I ask.

"No," Cinna says immediately. "It's way too overdone, you won't stand out in that. My job is to make you unforgettable. So instead, we're focusing on the coal."

My mind flashes back to one awful year when the tributes from Twelve were naked and painted black to represent coal dust. I shiver slightly.

"What do we do with coal?" Cinna asks, smiling slightly. "We burn it."

My expression widens his grin.

"You're not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?"

A few hours later, Dean and I are dressed in matching black unitards. Only our hands, necks, and heads are uncovered, as black boots cover up to my knees, and Dean's calves. Dean looks good, although not much changed. He's clean shaven now, as opposed to the constant stubble he normally wears, and his eyebrows have been shaped neatly. He looks about as nervous as I feel.

"Well, at least burning up is better than starving in the games," I say, attempting to lighten his mood, as well as my own.

Dean stares at me for a moment, incredulous. I return his gaze with one of confusion.

"Let's just say burning up isn't exactly the way I'd like to go," he says shortly.

Too late, I remember his mother's fate. I open my mouth to say something, to fix it, but Cinna smooths it over before I can think of anything to say.

"Remember, they're synthetic flames," he says. "There's no possible way you can get burned."

"If there's even one pink mark on my lily white ass, I'm coming for you," Dean says, more terrified than threatening.

Cinna laughs it off and helps us into our chariot, bringing it around to line us up behind the other tributes.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't realize you're so afraid of fire."

"It's the only thing I'm afraid of," Dean says. "You go through what happened to me as a kid and tell me you're not afraid of fire."

"That's fair," I say. "Prim's terrified of explosions, she was playing near the mines when the explosion happened. Gale's freaked out by electricity since that one time the fence was actually on and he got shocked."

Dean considers me a moment, but I think he's grateful for the distraction.

"Sammy's afraid of the people from the Capitol," he says. "He says they're unnatural looking, that you can't trust them. He especially hates the ones with a lot of paint on their faces."

"I can see that," I say, thinking of all the oddities I've seen thus far in the Capitol.

"What about you, Katniss?" Dean asks. "What are you afraid of?"

"Starving," I say easily, "or my family dying."

"Everyone's afraid of that," Dean says. "I mean, deep down, what's the one thing that terrifies you above anything else? What keeps you awake at night?"

I think about it for a moment. As an answer draws near, my heart begins to pound.

"Not coming home," I say. "Someone I love not coming home one day."

Dean regards me with a dark look in his eyes, but thankfully, the opening ceremonies begin. The chariots take off, one by one, and speed down the track before us. They probably aren't going very fast, but I'm terrified already.

As if of one mind, Dean and I reach out and twine our fingers together, holding hands as we're sent down the track.

The chariot rolls down the track, in front of thousands of screaming Capitol citizens, toward the stage that hold President Snow, some chief Game Makers, and other Capitol officials. They should scare me, but everything pales in comparison to the flames.

Gorgeous flames flow like water up from my and Dean's shoulders, arms, legs and back. From there, brilliant hues of red, yellow, and orange flit and dance behind us. It's certainly incredible to behold, and the crowd goes wild. On impulse, I raise my and Dean's clasped hands into the air. The crowd becomes hysterical. I remember to smile.

People throw red roses toward us. I catch one, and give it a delicate sniff. Dean eyes me, but I turn to him with a huge smile, and he understands. I hand the rose to him, and he smiles back at me. I wonder if I'm the only one who can see how pained he looks.

The president gives us a speech, welcoming us to the games, but I'm more focused on keeping up my appearance. My cheeks ache from the prolonged smiling. Finally, we are brought into the training center and our prep teams take hold of us, gushing over how well we did.

We only have about an hour to ourselves to shower and change before dinner. I find out that the prep teams, Haymitch, Effie, Dean, and I will be sharing the twelfth floor. I shower quickly, grateful to scrub all that make-up off my face, and join everyone for dinner. Dean and I stuff ourselves, ravenous, as the others talk about our interview costumes.

In a few days, we'll be interviewed by Cesar Flickerman, as the tributes are every year. It'll be one of our last chances to get sponsors, near the end of our training. After that, on the last day before the Games start, we'll be evaluated by our trainers and given a number. All of these steps and ceremonies, and half of us won't make it past the first day.

A flaming cake breaks me from my morbid thoughts as it arrives at the table.

"How is it burning? Is it alcohol or some—"

I catch sight of the Avox girl delivering the cake. She looks familiar, somehow. Instinctively, I look at Dean. I'm not sure if I imagine it, but I could swear that there's a glint of sad recognition in his eyes, as well. He catches my gaze and shakes his head slightly. I decide not to say anything.

"Yes, the cake has spirits," Cinna answers, "but it's all burned off now. Try a piece."

The cake is richer and much sweeter than the ones from the bakery back home. The Mellarks run the bakery well, with their son, Peeta, who I know from school, but the Capitol has access to much better ingredients.

"It's good," I say politely. I avoid eating too much of the frosting, as it's almost pure sugar.

"Pie's better," Dean says, most of his cake left uneaten.

"Well, it's time for bed anyway," Haymitch says. "Your training starts first thing tomorrow, so why don't you two go along, and let the grown-ups talk?"

I can tell that this agitates Dean, but he makes an obvious effort to bite his tongue. We walk back to our rooms, but neither of us leave the hallway. We stare at one another, sizing each other up. Eventually, Dean turns from me.

"Come on," he says.

He leads me up a staircase to the roof of the training center.

"Are we allowed to be up here?" I ask.

"I don't care," he says bluntly. "We need to talk about that girl, that Avox."

I had been out hunting with Gale one day, with Dean nearby hunting his own game, when the woods had fallen silent. A boy and a girl had burst through the undergrowth. They had that Capitol look, but were obviously haggard, eyes sunken in from lack of sleep, and running for their lives. Gale and I had barely had the good sense to take cover under a rocky outcrop before a hovercraft appeared. A net shot down, hauling the girl up, and the boy was speared on a long, metal spear attached to the cable. They hauled his body up next to her and she screamed. Even after the hovercraft disappeared with the girl, and the boy's body, it took me and Gale a long while before we tread out in the open again. Dean had taken shelter behind a massive tree, but was long gone before I thought to make sure he hadn't been taken, too. He'd run back to Twelve, undoubtedly to check on Sam.

"You remember her?" I ask.

"Of course I do," Dean replies. "You remember where she was running to?"

They had been running past Twelve. The only thing past Twelve was the rubble where Thirteen had once been. Thirteen used to supply nuclear weapons to the Capitol, and they had been wiped off the map during the war.

"Into the wilderness," I say.

"Toward Thirteen," Dean says.

"Thirteen doesn't exist anymore," I argue. "Why would she be going there?"

"I don't know," Dean says with a sigh. "The journal…a lot of it's written in code. Sammy's good at cracking codes, that's why I left it with him, in the end. But it definitely says something about Thirteen being alive."

"How?" I ask, doubtful.

"I don't know, but did you notice the Peacekeepers this morning?"

"What about them?"

"When I threatened to kick Haymitch's ass at breakfast," Dean clarifies, "do you remember what I said?"

"That you'd kick his ass to Thirteen and back," I remember.

"Yeah," Dean says, "and they all tensed up. One of them, the leader, the one with the markings on his chest and helmet? He actually took a step toward me. That's why I used that threat."

"It was a test," I say.

"Bingo," Dean says, running a tired hand over his face. "Even if Thirteen's not real, they're real touchy about people mentioning Thirteen."

"So something's going on," I say.

"Yeah," Dean says, "I just don't know what."


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, I meet Haymitch and Dean at the breakfast table just after sunrise. Dean and I load up on eggs, toasted bread, more of the hot chocolate we like so much, and some new foods we've never tried before. There's bacon, which we've heard of but never had, small, flat cakes served with syrup called pancakes, and browned bits of shredded potato that Dean smothers with ketchup.

"So," Haymitch says, nursing some more of that vile red alcohol, "training begins today. Do you two want to be trained together, or separately?"

"Together," Dean and I say in unison.

"Well, all right," Haymitch says. "Tell me more about your skills. Dean has skills with a spear, and can handle a knife. Katniss is great with a bow and arrow. Now, there's no guarantee there'll be spears and arrows, so you two have to show the judges what you can do with those weapons during your private sessions. But aside from that, what can you do?"

"We hunt," Dean says. "We know how to kill, how to track—"

"Track people or animals?" Haymitch asks.

"What's the difference?" says Dean darkly.

"Good answer," Haymitch says with a twisted smile. "You know how to live off the land, to stay fed?"

"I can trap," I pipe up. "Gale uses snares all the time, and he fishes. I help him sometimes, I know what to do. I know how to clean and cook game."

"I do, too," Dean agrees. "And we both know what plants to eat, and not eat. Dandelions are good, katniss roots, all kinds of wild berries, except nightlock berries, of course."

I nod, watching Haymitch take it all in.

"So what you're going to do," Haymitch says, "is go to group training and develop skills that you don't have. Tie some knots, wield a mace or a sword, do some weight training. Don't show anyone what your best skills are until your private session, okay?"

"Makes sense," Dean says as I nod.

"Another thing," Haymitch says. "We need to think about your public image, how we get sponsors to like you. You're both rough around the edges, but you both volunteered for your siblings. We're playing off the love and family angle. You two know each other already, so we're going to make it seem like you're a lot closer than you are. So, stay by each other's side every moment."

Dean and I nod. I don't like it, but I know it's out best strategy. We probably would have done that anyway, I realize. Before I can think of anything more to ask Haymitch's advice on, it's time to head to training. Dean and I take the elevator to the training area below the first floor, as Haymitch heads out to try and win over potential sponsors.

The training area is a huge open space with different stations that we can go between at our discretion. Some focus on survival, like knot tying, herb and berry identification, and water purifying. Others have weapon training. Experts are at every station to help guide us. Someone pins a number twelve on my and Dean's backs, and we are released with a stern warning not to fight with other tributes.

"All right, we have three days," Dean says. "Let's focus on one thing each day, and hit every station."

"Okay," I nod. "Let's start with survival. Knot tying, camouflage, water purifying."

"Good idea," Dean says, and we head for those stations.

After day one, Dean and I have sharpened our plant knowledge, and we've both learned how to make a decent fire. I've perfected and Dean's learned knot tying for basic traps and snares, and we both learn how to use the plants around us to find water nearby, and then purify it.

Each day during meals and breaks from training, Effie and Haymitch press me and Dean for every detail about training. They give us clear instructions on every aspect of training and what we're to be focusing on and improving. Neither Dean nor I have the patience for it, so our meals normally end in a heated spat between us and Haymitch or Effie.

Day two is all about weapons, which Dean excels at. He's at least decent with every weapon he picks up. We both take our trainers' tips seriously, and by the end of the day, we can both make do with swords, maces, throwing knives, daggers, and spears. Dean feigns lack of skill with a spear so well that even I look at him in confusion before I notice the hint of an impish smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Somewhere between day two and day three, I notice the small girl from Eleven, Rue, following us discreetly. She's very quiet, good at not being noticed, and near deadly with a slingshot. I don't say anything to her, unsure if she's actually following us. By day three, however, I see Dean looking at her enough that I think we both have realized that she's our shadow.

On the last day, Dean and I focus on evasion and fighting. We scale the climbing wall again and again: Dean makes us drill it with only one leg, then while carrying weights on our backs, then with just arms. I only get about halfway up the wall with just my arms. Then, we lift weights, run the small obstacle course a few times, and finally spend hours drilling hand to hand combat. We have to use our trainers as fighting partners because we keep holding back when fighting one another.

Finally, at the end of the third day, they start calling us in for our private sessions. We'll have fifteen minutes each to show the Game Makers what we can do, and then they'll judge us and give us a number based on our skill level. Sponsors tend to favor tributes with higher numbers, so the importance of this session isn't lost on any of us. Starting with the tributes from District One, they call us one by one for our sessions. It seems like almost no time has passed before I'm alone with Dean, waiting for his name to be called.

"Good luck," I say. "Not that you need it."

"We all need it," Dean says. "So good luck to you. Make sure you get the feel for the weapon before you use it. They're all weighted weird here."

"I will," I say, "thanks, I didn't think of that. And you, make sure you show off your knives as well as spears. You're excellent with both."

Dean nods, tense, and I let the conversation drop. Barely a moment later, they call his name. He leaves without a backward glance. Fifteen minutes feels like five, and then my name is called.

I beeline for the weapons range, remembering Dean's advice as I shoot a few practice arrows at a target before moving to the dummy. I'm glad I did, as the bow here is much more tightly strung than my bow at home.

I announce my name and district before turning to shoot the dummy. I hit it right in the heart. Pumped with adrenaline, I turn as I notch another arrow and aim for the boxing sandbag. I hit the rope that holds it, and it falls with a satisfying _thump_ , splitting open. I keep the momentum, rolling forward and landing on one knee, another arrow notched. I aim for a light across the room for me, and let the arrow fly. A shower of sparks signals my finale as I look toward the Game Makers.

A few of them are looking at me and nodding, impressed. Most of them, however, are entirely focused on a large roast pig that just been delivered to their box. Rage bubbles within me as I stare at them in disbelief. My success in the arena, my very _life_ is on the line here, and they are more interested in their dinner. The sit in their box about fifteen feet above me, and about ten yards away. Enraged, I notch another arrow and stand, taking my archer's stance in one fluid motion.

I let the arrow loose, and feel satisfaction in my very core as it sinks into the apple I aimed for, sending it flying from the pig's mouth and pinning it against the wall behind it. The Game Makers shout in alarm, jumping back and tripping over one another. They all stare at me, incredulous.

"Thank you for your consideration," I say, blood pounding in my ears.

I don't wait for their response, and instead turn on my heel and stride to the exit.

I discard my bow and arrow in the hallway, barely noticing the Avoxes picking them up, and march myself into the elevator. Hot tears slide down my cheeks. I've ruined it now. I've ruined any chance of getting sponsors, any chance I had at winning.

I fired an arrow at Game Makers. I assaulted members of the Capitol. I'm doomed. My mind races, wondering if they'll harm my mother or Prim as punishment. I half expect Peacemakers to come for me. The elevator doors open and I run for my room. Effie and Haymitch take turns trying to talk me out of my room, but I scream at them to go away. Eventually, they do, and I curl up on my bed and cry until dinner.

Dabbing uselessly at my splotched face, I emerge for dinner to find Dean, Haymitch, Effie, Cinna, and Portia waiting for me. I wish everyone would stop staring at me. I barely eat as the rest of them make small talk, except for Dean. Dean stares at me for a while, ignoring the conversation going on next to us.

"Hey," he murmurs, so low that only I can hear him, "you okay?"

"I messed up," I say.

"You probably did fine," Dean says. "You're deadly accurate with that thing. Did you take some practice shots like I told you?"

I nod, miserable, before explaining. "That's the problem. I was very accurate."

Dean's brows furrow, but I don't elaborate. After a moment, Haymitch breaks the tension.

"All right, enough with the chit-chat," he says. "How did you guys do?"

"I did all right," Dean says. "They weren't paying much attention to me when I started throwing spears, so I started wailing on a punching bag. Made a lot of loud grunts and stuff, like they told us to. That got their attention. And then I started throwing the knives at the same dummy that had spears sticking out of it. I put one knife on either side of each spear. They seemed impressed with that, but then they dismissed me pretty quickly."

"Not bad," Haymitch says. "How about you, sweetheart?"

"I shot an arrow at the Game Makers," I say bluntly.

It takes everyone a moment to absorb what I've said.

"Bad. Ass." Dean says, reaching up to high five me. I don't.

"You did _what_?" Effie squawks, blanching visibly.

"I shot an arrow at them—well, in their direction," I clarify. "Like Dean said, they weren't paying attention to me. This big roast pig came and they were all more concerned with that than my presentation. So I shot the apple right out of the pig's mouth!"

"So…what did they say after that?" Cinna asks gently.

"I don't know, I walked out," I confess.

"Well, look at that," says Haymitch.

"Do you think they'll arrest me?" I ask him. "Or hurt my family?"

"Nah," Haymitch responds, "that'd be too much work. And they'd have to admit that you took them off guard like that."

"So what are they going to do to me?" I ask.

"Probably just make life hell for you in the arena," Haymitch says after a swig from his hip flask.

"Big surprise," Dean says. "Don't they do that anyway?"

In spite of myself, I smile a bit. I feel significantly better than before, well enough to eat, even. Dean catches my eye, a humorous glint in his own green eyes.

"So, what was their reaction?" He asks. "The Game Makers, when the arrow flew into the apple. Did they shit themselves?"

"Almost," I reply with a small smile. "They all jumped back. One of them fell directly into the punch bowl."

Everyone except Effie laughs heartily at that.

"Well, good on you," Effie says. "How dare they not pay attention to you two, just because you're from Twelve! That'll teach them to underestimate tributes from outlying districts."

Everyone looks surprised at Effie's outburst as she looks around timidly. Dean looks almost proud of her.

"Hear, hear," Haymitch declared, taking a deep draw from his flask. "Now, let's go see your scores."

"I'll have a very low one," I mumble, but I follow Effie and Haymitch over to the massive TV anyway.

"You don't know that," Dean says, seating himself next to me on the couch. "Maybe they liked your moxie."

"My moxie?" I say, almost smiling at the lighthearted twinkle in his eyes.

"Yeah, they want us to stand out, right?" He says smugly. "We volunteered and blew their minds, then we came in literally on fire, and now, we refuse to be ignored."

"Unforgettable," agrees Haymitch with a smile.

I've never seen Haymitch smile before, not a genuine smile. It almost makes me think that Dean and I can win this. Doubt has been growing in the pit of my stomach since the reaping, but for the first time, I think maybe Dean or I can manage to make it home. It's odd how I'm supposed to be terrified with the Games so close, but my mindset grows more positive by the day.

The anxiety about things I can't control, like my family's safety and getting sponsors, has been quelled by Haymitch as I'm slowly beginning to trust his sobriety. My fears of surviving in the arena are nearly nonexistent, as Dean and I can more than manage to survive in the woods alone, let alone together.

Dean and I have both been hunting for years. Even though we were distant until the reaping, never having really spoken to one another directly, we've always had a mutual understanding and respect for one another. Since the reaping, however, I've noticed a kind of synergy developing between me and Dean. We walk in step, we train together in fluid motions, aware of one another's body; we even share sideways glances at the things that Effie says sometimes.

Even though I know only one of us can make it home, I have hope that between the two of us, we'll make damn sure that this year's victor is from Twelve.

"Oh, perfect, it's starting," Effie says as a trio of Avoxes bring in hot tea and coffee for all of us.

Cesar Flickerman announces the scores, throwing in his own narration at every opportunity. The Careers, of course, score impossibly high. We are scored on a scale from one to twelve, although I've never seen a tribute score a twelve in my life. All of the Careers score eight or better. The foxfaced girl from Five scores a five, but Rue pulls off a seven. Rue's male counterpart, a wall of a guy named Thresh, scores a menacing ten. I start to feel sick as they announce District Twelve. There's no way I can compete with that.

Dean's face flashes on the screen first. We all hold our breath, but a magnificent number ten flashes below his name, and everyone lets out an ecstatic cheer. Effie hushes us all, however, as my face and name appear on the screen.

Dean's hand suddenly grasps mine. Startled, I turn to look at him, but his eyes are glued on the monitor before us. I turn back, squeezing his hand in nervous response, just in time to see my number flash. It's an eleven.

Our entire floor erupts in chaotic cheers. Cinna, Portia, the prep teams, Effie, Haymitch, Dean, and I all exchange hugs and congratulations. I feel confident in myself in a way that's foreign to me. Amid the chaos, Dean grabs me in a massive bear hug, his smile almost splitting his face open.

Dean almost looks his age when he smiles, a refreshing change from the scowl that normally makes him look much older. His hug seems to press all the doubt and loneliness from my body. I smile back.

"Here, bring it in!" Effie calls into the kitchen. "Bring it here!"

She looks at all of us mischievously.

"I had this prepared," she says. "I had a feeling that a celebration may be in order."

A pie about as wide across as my arm span is wheeled out between four Avoxes on a cart.

"Pie!" Dean yells, looking happier than I've ever seen anyone look in my life.

We all indulge that night. We all know that the interviews are tomorrow. We all know that will be our last chance at getting sponsors. We all know that the morning after that, Dean and I will head for the arena. We all know there's stress, heartache, and death to come.

So for tonight, we eat pie, and smile.


	6. Chapter 6

I sleep fitfully all night. When Effie rouses me at dawn, it's a welcome break from my nightmares. I've watched my mother and Prim die all night. Sometimes, they whither to skeletons before my eyes, dying of starvation. Other times, Peacekeepers shoot them for my behavior in the Capitol. During the worst ones, they die next to me in the arena.

At Effie's insistence, I shower, and try to scrub those thoughts from my mind. My prep team touches up their work on me after that. By the time Effie lets me eat breakfast, my entire body smarts from waxing, and my already trimmed hair and fingernails have been redone.

I see Dean briefly at breakfast as we both scarf down different sweet fruits and fruit juices. Dean can't get enough bacon, but my stomach is already in knots. Before we can have a proper conversation, Haymitch pulls Dean away for interview preparation.

Effie pulls me away, as well, and starts conditioning me to walk in heels, to curtsey, to carry myself with grace, to sit correctly. I didn't even know there was a way to sit incorrectly, but I guess my interview dress is going to be much more constricting than I thought. Effie has me wear a practice dress and heels, and makes me practice spinning in place for some reason.

Dean and I have lunch together in front of the TV, while Effie, Haymitch, the prep teams, and a very tense Cinna and Portia go over final interview costume details.

"You nervous?" I ask.

"No," he says, his sarcasm almost undetectable under his deadpan, "I'm ecstatic. I'm sure you are, too."

"At least it'll all be over soon," I say.

"That's a morbid way of thinking of it," he says, popping a buttered roll in his mouth.

"No, I mean the fake part of it," I clarify. "The smiling, the presentation. Hiding our skills, being groomed for interviews. It all feels unnatural. I just want to be past the preparation."

"And get to the killing?" He says, disbelieving.

"No," I say. "But at least out there, our enemies will be wearing weapons and not smiles. And our defenses will be our own skill, not some game of politics and niceties."

"True," Dean says. "That does sound a lot better than this shit."

We let the gravity of our situation marinate for a moment, before I decide to try and lighten the mood.

"But less pie," I say with a smile.

"Oh, the pie," Dean sighs. "If I win, I'm going to eat nothing but pie."

"Sounds like a great life," I say wistfully.

"What about you?" He asks suddenly.

"What?"

"What's the one thing you're gonna do if you win?" He asks.

"Survive," I say, not understanding what he means. "Go home."

"No shit," Dean says. "I mean, what are you promising yourself if you win? What will you have to look forward to? And not survival, not going home, or seeing your family. Something small, precious, some luxury you'll finally be able to have."

I think on that for a while. I try to picture myself having won the Games, living in the Victor's Village. The people of Twelve get more rations for a whole year, my mother and Prim live with me. No one is hungry, no one is dying. What could make it better?

"New boots," I say. "Water and snow always leak into the ones I have, they used to be my dad's."

"You should get them lined with fur," Dean says. "For the winter."

"If I win, I'll skin a squirrel myself and line them," I say.

"Well, it'll either be boots or pie, but one of us is winning more than just the Games," Dean says.

"It's not about the Games," I say irritably, wondering why Dean insists on talking about boots and pie. "It's always been about more than the Games. And not just boots and pie."

Dean stares at me for a moment.

"Oh, I know," he says. "Believe me, I don't forget it either. I hate not knowing if Sam's eaten today, if he's sick, or hungry, or hurt. I hate not knowing if the Hawthorns are okay, or your mom and sister. I know they're all dying, slowly. And you and I aren't there to help them. So yeah, it's nice to focus on boots and pie for a minute. It helps you forget about the reality of it, even for a minute. Because what good is worrying about them, if we can do anything?"

"We can if one of us wins," I say.

"Exactly," Dean says. "And then everyone gets boots and pie."

"You two and your pie," Effie scoffs, coming over to gather us for afternoon training. "Come along, we have to coach you on what to say now. If it goes well, we may just have one last pie made for after the interviews."

"Well that might just be enough to get me through the damn thing," Dean says with a mocking smile.

Haymitch and Effie sit me and Dean down on a particularly uncomfortable couch in Effie's room.

"Now," Effie begins, "Cinna and Portia have made your interview costumes, as you know. You've both been trained on how to move in them, as well has how to physically present yourselves. When you spin, Katniss, and you activate your button, Dean, the synthetic flames will activate."

"Yeah, they'll look real pretty," Haymitch says, irritated. "We've spent all morning on that, and soon enough, they'll be whisked away to be squeezed into the damn costumes. Can we focus for a minute on what they'll have to say? That's what'll get them sponsors."

"So will looking nice," Effie sniffs, but concedes to Haymitch's glare.

"Now, we'll be working the love and family angle," Haymitch says. "You both volunteered for your siblings, they'll be sure to eat that up. What we want to push is your history with one another. We want people to root for you."

"Normally, tributes don't form alliances outside of the Careers, not unless survival depends on it once the Games start," Effie says. "But from an outlying district, it'll cause some intrigue."

"So we've got the volunteering," Haymitch says, listing things off on his fingers, "flying through the Opening Ceremony on fire, holding hands as a show of solidarity. That's caught a lot of attention. They're going to want to know why you guys are teaming up, why you think you can win."

"So we start with your backstory," Effie says. "How your families helped each other in Twelve. How you plan to fight together in the area."

"Present yourselves as a unit," Haymitch says. "A force to be reckoned with."

Dean and I nod in agreement. Haymitch then drills into our heads not to say anything negative about the Games or the Capitol. Effie coaches us to smile, and makes us smile while talking until our faces ache. All of our tempers flare as the time slips quickly away from us.

"Can you please at least try to sound like you like the audience?" Effie asks with an exasperated sigh. "Either of you?"

"Oh, my bad," Dean says, gritting his teeth in a mocking smile. "I'm so happy to be pretending to have an 'apple pie life' in front of the people who want me dead. Am I not smiling enough for the people who allow my friends and my brother to starve, while they gorge themselves every day?"

"You'll never see them again with that attitude," Haymitch says, taking a swig from a flask. "The Games aren't where the real competition begins. The real Games have already started, Dean. So play them."

"Why?" Dean asks, a vein in his temple pulsing. "Why do they get to control my life? They want to take away my future, why should I give them my past to exploit?"

I'm awestruck. I couldn't have said it better, myself. I'm amazed that Dean can articulate so perfectly the feelings I have that even I don't understand yet.

"Because your only other option is to roll over an accept death," Haymitch nearly growls. "And I know you, I know you both. You're a lot of things, and not at all personable, but the last thing either of you is, is a quitter. So, fight. It may not be fighting with a bow or a spear, but it's a battle. So, fight it."

Dean, Haymitch, Effie, and I continue to argue until finally, Cinna and Portia save us. Dean and I are called to separate rooms to be prepared for our interviews. My stomach tightens as I try to remember how to move in a dress, what words to say so I don't sound like I hate the Capitol. The last thing I feel like doing is smiling.

My dress is beautiful, a stunning mix of red, orange, and yellow gems sewn on a form fitting white dress. Intricate flames are painted on my nails, brilliant red is braided into my hair, gorgeous makeup is applied to my face. I hardly recognize myself, which is good as I grow more nervous.

Before I know it, all of the tributes are seated in a line, backstage at Cesar Flickerman's interview show. Dean is dressed in a dapper suit of brilliant red, with tiny, bright orange stitching and yellow accents. His bright green eyes seem to have somehow captured the flames within them, as well.

"You look good," I say.

"Thanks," Dean responds.

He hasn't looked at me yet. He arrived before me, and has been sitting, staring at the ground before him, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"Is everything all right?" I ask.

"It's worse than I thought," Dean whispers. "They're here."

"Who is?" I whisper back, staring at the side of his face.

"Them," he responds, so softly that I can barely hear him. "The…people who killed my mom."

"How do you know?"

"Their eyes," he murmurs. "Their eyes are odd, but not Capitol odd. According to the journal, they have black eyes. No pupil, no iris, just black. And I saw one talking to Cesar before the show."

"What?" I hope I've misheard, but even as quietly as Dean is speaking, I know I'm hearing him right.

"Yeah," Dean says, looking around for eavesdroppers or cameras. "When they saw me, his eyes changed back to normal, in an instant."

He finally looks at me, and I see the gravity of the situation in his eyes. It only lasts a moment, however, before his mouth drops open and his eyes flit from my face to my dress.

"What is it?" I ask. "Is there something on my dress?"

"No, it's just," he pauses, sighing, "you look…well, you look beautiful, Katniss."

"Oh," I say, suddenly uncomfortable. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Dean says, with a hint of a smile.

"So these people," I say, ignoring the rush of blood in my cheeks. "They're dangerous and somehow involved with the Games?"

"According to the journal, yes," Dean says, quickly growing somber again. "Do you have your pin?"

I move a fold of my dress aside, showing him the pin cleverly hidden, sitting just below my collarbone on my left side.

"You said it's protection, right?" I ask. "Seeing as we're constantly being thrown to the wolves, I figure I could use some."

"Right," Dean says with a sigh. "We should focus on the interviews, they're almost ready for us."

I look up and realize that he's right. Cesar is nearly through with the girl from Ten, who seems to have the personality of a piece of cardboard.

"Right," I say. "Family love, and all that."

"Damn straight, Katniss," Dean says. "According to Haymitch, we're brutal and hard to love, so we have to make it seem like we love one another, even in a family way."

"Well, I'm offended," I say mockingly. "You and I are the warmest, most loving people in the world."

Dean barks a short laugh at that, which calms me enough to smile. That smile propels me onstage, in front of the massive crowd. I spot Cinna among them, looking at me with total confidence and encouragement.

"Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire," Cesar begins, inviting me to sit. "So Katniss, coming all the way from the Capitol must be a big change. What's impressed you the most since you've arrived?"

I hesitate, but there's really no way to offend anyone in the Capitol with this one. At least, I hope not.

"The food," I say. "The pie, the stew…the hot chocolate!"

"Oh, I love the food here," Cesar says, beaming. "It doesn't show, does it?"

The audience laughs at Cesar's gesture toward his gut. Cinna catches my eye, and silently reminds me to smile. I do.

"So Katniss," Cesar continues, "let's talk about the Opening Ceremony. When you came out, my heart literally stopped."

"Yeah, mine, too," I say.

"Oh, did it?" Cesar asks with a smile.

"You try being on fire," I say, trying to smile back.

Cesar and the audience laugh at that.

"But they did look beautiful," Cesar says, "didn't they?"

"They did," I say, catching Cinna's eye. He nods, and I press on. "In face, I'm wearing them tonight. Would you like to see?"

The audience's response is overwhelming. Cesar helps me up, and I spin. I'm sure to smile, and I try to keep in mind what Effie has taught me about spotting and how to place my feet. My skirt flies out and spreads into brilliant, flickering flames. The crowd cheers, until I stumble and Cesar catches me.

"Woah," he says with a chuckle. "Maybe that's enough for now."

"Maybe," I agree as I wobble back to my seat.

"That was stunning," Cesar says. "But she's not just a pretty face, folks! Let's talk about that training score. Eleven! How in the world did you manage that?"

I hesitate. The Game Makers sit in the audience. They smile, but the hint of malice in their eyes isn't lost on me. I remember all of Dean's warnings about them. I'm suddenly grateful that I've taken to wearing my pin at all times.

"Let's just say, I don't think it's been done before," I say, looking out at the Game Makers with a hint of a wry smile. They don't seem to like my subtle boldness, but they smile for the cameras anyway.

"Details, Katniss!" Cesar basically begs, turning to the audience for support. "We're dying to know."

"I don't think I'm supposed to talk about it," I say with a forced smile.

"All right, all right," Cesar concedes.

It's only for half a second, but I swear I see Cesar glance nervously at the Game Makers out of the corner of his eye.

"So, let's go back to the reaping," Cesar continues.

A hush falls over the crowd. I swallow. I'm relieved that I don't have to smile for this part, but the last thing I want to do is relive the reaping again.

"Can you tell us what happened, Katniss?" Cesar asks softly.

"My sister's name got called," I say.

I can't look at Cesar anymore. I look out at the crowd, and find Cinna's eyes. He holds my gaze. There's no sympathy there, only confidence and gold eyeliner. He nods, encouraging me. I speak directly to him.

"Her name is Prim," I say. "She's only twelve. I couldn't let her go in. She'd be alone, scared. And there's no way I could watch her go through that."

"Oh, Katniss," Cesar says gravely. "Were you able to see her before you left?"

"Yes," I say. "I saw her and my mother. And my…best friend, Gale."

"And what did they say to you?" Cesar asks gently.

"They asked me to try really hard to win," I say. "And I'm going to."

My time is almost up, but I realize I've failed to do the one thing I'm supposed to: make it look like Dean and I are family. Frantically, I search for a way to tie it in.

"I don't intend to disappoint them," I say. "Sam even ran all the way home after the reaping, just to bring me my district token."

"Sam…Sam Winchester?" Cesar's powder blue eyebrows shoot up toward his powder blue hair.

"Yes," I say. "He didn't want me to go in the arena with nothing, he wanted me to have some piece of District Twelve. So he ran back home and got me a pin. He ran all the way back and gave it to Gale to give to me."

"Your fellow tribute's brother, that he volunteered for, ran all the way home to get you a district token?" Cesar asks, incredulous. "But why?"

"Because we're family," I say. "In Twelve, we don't have much. We get by, we make do with what we have. But the one thing we have, the one thing that will never leave, that you can always count on, is family."

The audience sighs at that, as Cesar nods approvingly.

"I didn't know you were related," Cesar says. "How tragic."

"We're not," I say, quickly trying to think of a cover. "We're a family…by choice. And that makes us even stronger. We didn't just happen to share blood. We choose each other, every day."

"That is remarkable," Cesar says.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of my interview.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire!" Cesar announces, to thunderous applause.

I exit the stage, my heart pounding.

They liked me. The audience, Cesar, they liked me. I have nothing to worry about. I even managed to lay solid groundwork for Dean to use in his interview, to drive home the family thing. There's nothing left to do now except watch Dean's interview, which is short and similar to mine.

Dean recounts the reaping, the Opening Ceremonies, and emphasizes the family dynamic I've laid out. He even tells Cesar about my and Gale's parents caring for him and Sam when they were young, and how he returned the favor when our fathers died. That won the crowd over in a massive, sweeping sigh. By the time Dean's interview is done, the entire audience is rooting for us to win, or at least survive the first few days of the Games.

Dean rises from his seat, shakes Cesar's hand, and looks straight at the camera. I don't see him activate the button in his suit, but everyone sees the gorgeous flames licking at him from every bright orange stitch in his suit. The audience cheers as Dean exits the stage, his gaze determined and stride unfazed by the fire.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Dean Winchester, the man on fire!" Cesar yells as Dean exits, joining in the crowd's applause.

As the flames die down, Dean catches me backstage. He steps close to me, catching me off guard.

Dean stares at me, his gaze boring into mine with an intensity I was nowhere near prepared for. Wordlessly, he slides his fingers through the folds of my dress and finds the pin. With his eyes, he gestures off to one side.

The Game Makers are watching us from the shadows.


	7. Chapter 7

Neither Dean nor I say a word until much later that night. Effie and Haymitch rush us back to our rooms. Effie gushes about how well we did, while Haymitch starts talking arena strategy at us. The moment we get back, Effie insists we both shower and head right to sleep, as we'll be sent to the arena directly after breakfast in the morning.

Dean and I comply, disappearing into our separate quarters with nothing more than a quick, shared glance. I try to shower quickly, but even with the fancy Capitol shower, it takes ages to scrub off my makeup. I dry off and change quickly, fastening my pin to my nightshirt and mechanically braiding my wet hair to one side.

I sneak out of my room, tiptoe past Effie and Haymitch's rooms, and find Dean exactly where I expect to: on the roof.

"Hey," he says as I quietly close the door behind me.

"Hey," I reply.

Dean leans against the railing, his hair barely damp from his shower and a flask hanging from his long fingers.

"I was starting to think Haymitch's drunkenness scared you off the stuff for good," I say, pointing at his flask.

"No," Dean says. "I'd never let myself be that much of an alcoholic, but it still helps."

I nod in understanding, absently wandering to lean on the railing, as well. I'm not right next to Dean, but he could easily touch me if he reached his arm out. He almost does, as he offers me the flask.

I shake my head. Dean shrugs, and takes a swig.

"It's almost surreal," I say. "I can't believe we'll be in the Games tomorrow."

"We're not prepared," Dean responds somberly. "Our two days of training are nothing compared to the Careers."

"We're used to beating the odds," I say. "We come from Twelve. We've been trained to hunt, to stay quiet, to avoid being seen, for years."

Dean nods, but doesn't say much. I can tell he isn't convinced. I'm forcing myself to speak optimistically, because I can tell Dean has done the same throughout training, but we both know it's useless. We'll probably be dead by this time tomorrow.

"There's something you should know before we go into the arena, Katniss," Dean says, refusing to meet my eyes. "The people in there, the ones that killed my mom…they're not normal people."

A long silence stretches out between us as he tries to evade my unspoken questions.

"Not normal like the Capitol people aren't normal, or not normal like that boy from Three a few years ago that sharpened his teeth and nails like razors?" I finally ask.

"Not normal like no one you've ever met before," Dean says.

This time, I wait for him to speak. I stare at him, stubborn, as his eyebrows knit together above the mouth of his flask.

He finally meets my eyes.

"Not normal like not human."

"Not human?" I echo, confused. "Then what are they?"

"You're not gonna believe it," Dean says, taking another swig from his flask. "I didn't either until I saw one in Twelve. They came for the journal, a few days after we got it. I knew they weren't from Twelve because of their clothing. Black suits, like no Peacekeeper or Capitol official I've ever seen."

"I never saw them," I say.

"Yeah well, there's a good reason for that," Dean says. "I came home from hunting, and Sammy was in the corner, with these two men in suits standing over him. I said 'hey' and they turned around. Their eyes were fully black. They smiled at me, and said they'd come for the book."

"The book?"

"The journal," Dean clarifies. "Now, Sammy's read this journal front to back a million times over. I didn't believe half of what's in it, but he did. He said 'they're demons, Dean.' I told him to shut up, and I told the guys in suits to get the hell out. They refused, so I went to punch one of them. It was like punching a wall. They had strength like no one I've ever seen. I didn't stand a chance against one of them, let alone both."

"So how'd you get out of it?" I ask, my mind racing to imagine such powerful, black-eyed men.

"I didn't," Dean admits. "Sammy got me out of it. He started chanting, saying something in another language, a funny sounding language that seemed to put the guys in suits in a lot of pain. They went after Sam. It took everything I had, but I was able to hold them off long enough for him to finish. When he did, smoke shot out of their eyes and mouth. Thick, black columns of smoke that flew in a line out the door, one after the other. And the bodies hit the floor."

"They were dead?" I ask, incredulous.

"The funny thing is, they looked like they'd been dead for a while," Dean said. "Sammy and I dragged them out beyond the fence in the dead of night, to that little field we never go to because there's never any wildlife or plants. We buried the bodies, and Sam told me everything. He told me they were demons, that he was speaking Latin, that he had exorcised them and sent them back to hell. He also insisted that we pour salt on the bodies to prevent them being possessed again, and burn them in their graves before we piled the dirt back on."

I simply stared at him, wordless. I felt sick.

"It's messed up, I know," Dean says. "But when you see one, you'll believe me. And you'll do anything in your power to get away from it."

"What can I do against such a strong demon?" I ask, noticing how odd the question is.

"You believe me?" Dean asks doubtfully.

"I'm not sure," I say honestly. "But on the off chance that you're right, I want to be prepared."

"Well," Dean says after a moment, "that's smart, I guess. You're either smart of crazy, Katniss, to actually be considering this. I'm damn near crazy, myself."

"The arena is crazy," I say. "The Game Makers are insane. Maybe we need a bit of crazy, to survive their insane games."

"To crazy," Dean says, smiling humorlessly as he reaches his flask out over the balcony in a toasting motion.

"So how do we fight these things?" I ask as Dean drinks.

"First line of defense is your anti-possession symbol," Dean says. "Wear that, and demons can't possess you. We'll know that you're always you."

"What symbol?" I ask, but Dean's already pointing at my pin.

"Sammy must have painted it for you to protect you," Dean says.

I take the pin off, looking closely at the intricate paint job, the odd black star surrounded by a circle of fire.

"Why did he give it to me and not you?" I ask.

"Once he figured out that the journal was telling the truth, Sammy made us follow every protection protocol he could find," Dean says. "I didn't believe it, I didn't want to believe it, but being here and seeing the hard proof in front of my face, I can't deny it. I'm glad Sammy did it, and forced me to go along with it?"

"Did what?" I ask.

"He painted those traps on the floors in our house," Dean says. "He lined every entrance and window with pure salt, and something he made called Goofer Dust. We both memorized the Latin exorcism, and certain ways to reveal if someone's a demon or not. Like, using Holy Water, which is almost nonexistent. You can also say 'Christo' and their eyes will flash black, even if they're trying to appear human, with normal eyes."

"Latin?" I guess.

"Bingo," Dean says, storing his flask in his jacket pocket before he strips it off. "And Sammy made sure that he and I would always be protected."

In one fluid motion, Dean plucks his shirt off his back, jerking it suddenly over his head and letting it drop to the floor in a pile of black. I inhale slightly, feeling blood rush to my face.

I haven't seen a man shirtless since my father was alive. Well, except for Gale, when we would swim in the small stream beyond the fence when it got hot in the summer, but Gale is like family to me, as well.

Dean's hard muscles lay over his thin frame, emphasizing the strength packed into his constantly starved body. Everyone in Twelve is too skinny, but only Dean has rippling muscles, deep contours that cut across his abdomen and down his sides. I can see the veins resting against the bulges of his biceps. Even his chest is huge, sitting beneath sharply defined collar bones.

I gasp as I finally see what he wanted to show me. Tattooed on his chest, near his heart, is the odd star symbol, complete with the circle of flames. The jet black ink lay strikingly against Dean's pale skin. I swallow. My face drains of color again as I meet Dean's serious gaze. I nod, and he scoops his shirt off the floor, putting it back on quickly, as if hiding himself from me.

"So you believe it now," I say, careful not to make eye contact with him as the blood in my face refuses to recede. "At least, enough to tattoo it on your body."

"Yeah," Dean says, finishing the last of his drink. "I believe it even more after coming here."

I have nothing to say to that. My mind is reeling. I'm forcing myself to consider that something downright supernatural exists, that it's evil, and that it's coming for us. I lay awake long after climbing into bed, my thoughts racing. I beg my body to sleep, because I know I'll need it, but even when I finally manage to doze off, nightmares plague my mind.

I am already awake when Effie comes to fetch me in the morning.

"Good morning, princess," Haymitch greets me half-heartedly as I join everyone at the breakfast table. "Eat up, both of you. You'll need you strength."

Each bite feels like cardboard, but I force as much protein down my throat as I can. No one utters a word through the somber blanket that hangs over us all. All too soon, Cinna, Portia, Effie, and Haymitch usher Dean and me to our holding areas. On the trip over, Haymitch drills some last-minute advice into our heads.

"When you get there," he says urgently, "there will be a cornucopia of goods, vital things you may need to survive. Do not go in it. I'm serious, both of you. It will turn into the biggest bloodbath you'll see. If you try for the goods, you will be dead five minutes in. Run as far away as you can, and quickly. That's your only chance at survival. You hear me?"

Dean and I nod as Effie hugs us each quickly before Cinna takes me to one room and Portia pulls Dean away. Cinna and I are alone now. He dresses me in the same outfit that all the other tributes will be wearing, pinning my token carefully on my chest. I'm wearing a green shirt with a hooded black jacket, tawny pants, a brown belt, and socks and boots even better than the ones I had dreamed up with Dean.

"Guess I finally got boots," I whisper.

Sadness overcomes me suddenly as I realize Dean never got his pie from Effie last night. I find myself worrying about Dean as Cinna braids my hair snugly to one side.

"How does that feel?" Cinna asks. "The outfit, I mean."

"Good," I say.

A woman comes in, a Capitol woman, obviously, with an odd metal object in her hand.

"Give me your forearm," she instructs.

I oblige, and she inject something into to painfully.

"What is that?" I ask, frustrated.

"It's your tracker," she quips, and stalks out without a word. The door locks behind her.

I press on the small lump in my arm until a bruise begins to form, trying to deny the reality of my situation.

"Do you want to talk, Katniss?" Cinna asks.

I shake my head. Minutes pass in silence.

"Just remember what Haymitch said," Cinna says anyway after a while. "Run, find water, and use your hunting skills. You'll be fine."

"Do you really believe that?" I ask.

"I do," Cinna says.

His words offer little comfort, as he only knows about half of what I'm scared of facing in the arena. I want to talk to Dean again before we go in, but a robotic voice announces for all tributes to prepare for launching. I step onto a metal plate and hold Cinna's confident gaze as a glass tube is lowered around me.

"I'm not allowed to bet," he says as the clear glass descends. "But if I could, I'd bet on you."

"Truly?" I ask.

"Truly." I barely catch the word as the tube seals to the plate beneath me. I turn back toward Cinna and barely catch him mouth a few final words. "Good luck, girl on fire."

I rise. The metal plate propels me upward through the glass. I am surrounded by darkness.

Suddenly, brilliant sunlight blinds me. The smell of pine needles is strong in the air around me. I will my eyes to adjust as the announcement is made.

"Let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!"

For the first minute, all tributes must remain on their plates. One misstep and land mines blow off legs, or simply kill. Seconds drag by as I adjust my eyes and take in my surroundings. The cornucopia gleams in the sunlight, golden and stuffed with crates of food, weapons, and what look like medical kits.

The seconds slip quickly away as I try to form a plan. Haymitch told us to run away from the cornucopia, but neither Dean nor I have anything with us that will help us survive. I look around more carefully. Scattered in the grass between the cornucopia and the metal plates we stand on are smaller items, increasing in usefulness as they get closer to the cornucopia. A silver bow and sheath of arrows gleam from the base of a pile of weapons inside the cornucopia, just begging to be used.

I spot Dean, a few tributes down from me. We lock eyes. His eyes dart toward a small bag on the ground near him, then back at me. He juts his chin out toward a small orange backpack not very far from where I stand, then looks at me intently. I understand what he is going to grab, and what he wants me to grab. I nod.

I look behind him at a small space between two large trees at the edge of the. Dean follows my gaze before turning back to me and nodding.

We have a plan. We have barely five seconds left, but we have a plan.

The buzzer sounds.

I thrust myself off the platform and sprint for the orange backpack. I'm able to scoop up a large square of plastic on my way. The boy from Nine tries to grab the bag at the same time my fingers close around it, but as we struggle, he coughs up blood.

The girl from Two, Clove, has sunk a throwing knife into his back. She runs toward me, hurling another blade at me. Instinctively, I bring the backpack up to protect myself, and a knife sinks into it. Before I can react further, Dean materializes behind her.

In a fraction of a second, he has plucked the rest of the knives from Clove's hand and shoved them into her stomach. Dean pulls them back out quickly, and I shut my eyes as she collapses, moaning, on the ground.

"Come on!" Dean roars.

I follow him through the chaos, back through the woods until we've left the bloodbath far behind us.

We walk through the woods for hours, as quickly and quietly as we can, in search of water and wildlife. We startle a rabbit, which gives me hope at the prospect of food. We keep walking until nearly dusk, finding no water, saying nothing.

Suddenly, Dean stops in his tracks.

"We need to make camp," he says. "I doubt we've been followed."

"We need water," I say, but I squat down anyway.

"We'll find water first thing tomorrow," Dean says. "And food. But tonight, we need to see what we've got to work with, and figure out a way to sleep."

We both dump out our bags. Dean's is black, but mine is bright orange. He immediately grabs it from me and begins camouflaging it with mud and leaves while I lay out our supplies.

We have one large square of plastic that can be unfolded like a tarp, one black sleeping bag that reflects body heat, a small coil of wire, a box of matches, a large bottle with a cap to carry water, a bottle of iodine to make the water drinkable, a pair of sunglasses, a pack of dried beef, a pack of crackers, four throwing knives, a pack of kindling, a decent length of rope, a few long strips of durable cloth, a sheet of tarp made to retard rain, a large pack of dried fruit, and a small tin of black grease.

"What's the grease for?" I ask, confused.

"Probably to make slick ground for traps," Dean says. "Or to do something with fire. It's flammable."

"That's useful," I huff.

"Actually, it is," Dean says. "We can make camp, and then smear the grease and some mud over everything that's brightly colored."

I'm surprised at the efficiency of Dean's plan as we set to work. Dean finds a perfect little gap between tree trunks, protected by dense moss. The trees form a sloppy ring around a small but manageable space that's been overrun with moss. Working quickly, Dean and I clear the moss out, and lay down the plastic as a makeshift floor. Dean uses the rope and a bit of wire to suspend the rain tarp up like a tent while I repack our supplies into the bags and spread the sleeping bag across the plastic. I place one knife in each bag, and one on either side of the sleeping bag. I've unzipped it so that it lays flat, as the night grows cold around us and I realize that we will have to huddle together for warmth at night.

I show Dean where the knives are set, inches from where our hands will be as we sleep.

"We're sleeping here?" He asks. "Both of us?"

"Um, yes," I say. "Isn't that the point of the shelter?"

"Well, yeah," he starts, "I just didn't think we'd be, you know, sleeping…"

Flustered, he trails off. I simply look at him, the smallest bit of amusement softening my face.

"Forget it," he says suddenly, "it's fine. This whole thing is fine. It's…great."

He isn't looking at me, but I can't stop looking at him. I'm not sure why he's so embarrassed, or why I find it funny, but it's a welcome break from the stress surrounding us.

Dusk settles in as we use grease, mud, and moss to disguise our makeshift home. There is one open end where Dean and I can clearly see out, but thankfully we're able to disguise it with a sheet of moss. From more than three yards away, our shelter is nearly invisible to the naked eye.

"Not too shabby," Dean says, grinning in satisfaction.

"I guess those camouflage trainings paid off," I say, almost grinning at him.

Before Dean can respond, the Capitol theme plays. Projections appear in the sky as they announce today's deaths, followed by booming cannons. I count them off as they appear.

The girl from Three, the boys from Four and Five. Both tributes from Six, and from Seven. The boy from Eight. Both from Nine. The girl from Ten.

Eleven tributes gone, thirteen remaining.

And night has just barely begun to fall.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hungry?" I ask Dean, cutting away some pine bark to get at the soft, edible bark.

"Sure," he says, plopping down beside me as the last rays of light slip beneath the horizon.

We eat bark in silence, forcing it down in an effort to preserve our actual food. After so much Capitol food, it's hard to stomach, but our families are used to supplementing meals with bark. We'll be fine.

"I'm worried," I say. "What if the lake is the only source of water in the arena?"

"Well, that's one way to force a fight," Dean says, chuckling mirthlessly.

"No kidding," I say. "I mean, we saw that rabbit earlier, so there has to be something."

"Well, we have the iodine and the jug thing," Dean says. "We'll just go to the lake in the morning and grab some lake water, and bring it back here."

"No," I say. "We need to keep moving."

"We have a camp now," Dean says hotly. "Why did we go through the trouble of making camp if we were just going to leave?"

"Why would we stay here and be sitting ducks?" I shoot back.

"Because, Katniss," Dean says, his eyes slicing into me, "we're not alone in the arena."

"I know that."

"We have more to worry about than other tributes," Dean says slowly.

In a sudden rush, I remember everything Dean and I have been discussing and preparing for over the past few days. The pin on my shirt feels heavy, and my eyes drift to Dean's shirt, where I know his protection symbol lays inked into his flesh.

I look back up at him. I nod.

"Okay," he says. "You go set some snares for food, I'll get started on the symbols."

"Now?" I ask, taken aback.

"Now," Dean says, "while we still have a little light."

I walk a good twenty yards away from our shelter before I start setting snares, using the leftover rope and wire. I make sure to scatter them, setting them far apart so no one will be able to follow them back to us.

By the time I get back, I can barely see Dean, crouching about five feet from the mouth of out shelter.

"I can't see you very well," I say. "Are you done?"

He stands, and walks quickly toward me. My heart beats in my chest as he approaches. My gut is telling me to run, to grab a weapon, to do something.

"Dean?" I ask.

"Katniss," comes Dean's frantic voice from behind me. "Get down!"

I duck as a throwing knife flies through the air over my head, sinking into the chest of the man in front of me, the one I'd thought was Dean.

" _Exorcizamus te,_ " Dean whispers from behind me, " _omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…_ "

Dean continues speaking in what I assume is Latin. The figure in front of me hisses, collapsing in front of me. He lunges, but Dean finally reaches me and jerks me back. The man's violent movements are abruptly cut off, as if he ran into an invisible wall.

Dean refuses to let go of me as he reaches the end of his chant, his voice growing harsher as the figure convulses.

"… _audi nos_ , bitch," Dean says.

I can barely see what happens next, but I feel the rush of heavy wind as smoke engulfs me. It tries to shove itself up my nose, down Dean's throat, but it can't. The terror deep in my chest threatens to set me on fire, but the smoke can't hurt us. Eventually, it darts away unnaturally.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks.

"I'm not hurt," I manage. "Was that a demon?"

"Yes," Dean says.

I'm suddenly aware that he's still holding me. The Capitol cameras are going to have a field day with this. They'll probably claim bad footage on what attacked us, but the juicy gossip of Dean and I embracing will surely be headlining news.

"We should, um," I start, stepping away from Dean.

"Wait," he says, holding me closer.

"Why?" I ask, probably a little too sharply.

"Because there's a dead body right behind you," Dean says, almost sarcastically. "And, I don't want you to mess up the traps I set up."

"I didn't see any traps," I say.

"I carved them into the dirt," he explains, "and I covered them back up with leaves and some moss."

"Oh," I say.

"I just don't want you to step on them," Dean says.

"Okay," I say, but it comes out as more of a whisper.

He and I are embracing, but I can barely make out his shape, let alone navigate back to the shelter. I know that he's right, that he needs to guide me, but my heart still beats hard in my throat.

"Okay, well," Dean grunts, scooping me up into his arms.

I gasp, but restrain myself from moving too much. Dean carries me with ease, but I can feel how carefully he places his feet. He carries me slowly through the traps that are invisible to me, kicking the dead body for good measure as we pass it.

After what feels like an hour, Dean slowly sets me just inside the mouth of the shelter. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Thanks," I say shakily.

"No problem," Dean grunts as he climbs over me to lay beside me.

The parts of my body that were pressed against his feel especially chilly in the frigid night. The cold from the ground has seeped through to the plastic that we lay on. Dean lays the sleeping bag over us, which offers some warmth, but not much.

"Looks like we're gonna have to conserve body heat," Dean says.

I know he's right, but the saucy undertone in his voice makes me uncomfortable.

Dean is known all across Twelve as a ladies' man. Every spare moment that he has outside of hunting and caring for Sam is spent in different girls' beds. Sex among tributes in the arena is not uncommon, as everyone knows they very well could be dead the next day, but it's not something that I'm particularly interested in.

"Um," I start, sliding away from Dean, "we can take turns keeping watch."

"Keeping watch?" He asks. "Why? We can't see anything anyway, and no one can see our tent even in daylight. We need rest."

"You can rest," I say, slipping out from underneath the sleeping bag. "I'm too wired."

"Katniss, you need rest," Dean says. "And we both need warmth. You're shivering already."

I glare at the indistinct shape of Dean's body in the dark, but he's right. He can probably feel me shaking the plastic beneath me.

"What's wrong, Katniss?" Dean asks, his voice tight. "Why won't you come sleep here? Do you not trust me?"

"No," I say.

"No?" He asks, clearly offended. "What, do you think you're gonna wake up with a knife in your chest?"

"Of course not," I say, sighing.

"Then what is it?" Dean nearly growls.

I don't answer him. He huffs in exasperation and turns away from me. I sit stubbornly in the corner of the shelter, shivering. I know that I could die from cold, but I don't want Dean to try anything with me. A hot ball of tense discomfort weighs on my chest.

We sit in silence for so long that I think he's fallen asleep until his voice startles me.

"I'm not that bad to be around, you know," he snaps abruptly.

I don't respond. Dean either sits up or rolls over, judging by the sound of it.

"Why are you so weird all of a sudden, Katniss?"

He's facing me, either sitting or laying. His low voice carries more hurt than I thought it could. I realize that I have to answer him, no matter how much I don't want to.

"Because I'm not like the other girls in Twelve," I whisper.

"Of course not, you're a badass," Dean says, like it's obvious.

"I mean," I hesitate. "I know what you're used to doing with other girls in Twelve, and I…I'm not them."

Dean sighs.

"Katniss," he begins in a low voice, "there's so much wrong with that."

I stay silent, willing him to stop, but he explains anyway.

"First of all," he begins, "we trust each other. I respect you, okay? I would never force you into something you don't want. That's not what I do. Okay?"

He waits for me to respond.

"Okay," I say.

I feel a bit better, because I realize that I do trust him, and not only with my life.

"And those girls in Twelve," Dean says, "it's not something I'm proud of. But it's not what you think it is."

This time, it's Dean's turn to stay silent. After a while, I finally press him.

"What do you mean?" I ask, my teeth chattering together.

"Come here, Katniss," Dean sighs.

His thick arm reaches out and drags me gently under the sleeping bag next to him. I'm grateful enough for the heat, and my trust in Dean is finally solid enough that I can relax against him.

"Once I became a teenager, around fourteen," Dean begins, "all the girls in school wanted to sleep with me. They thought I was attractive, a little bit dangerous, but overall a survivor. I guess they were into that."

"I remember," I murmur, feeling the need to contribute.

"Well, as I got older, it became a kind of status thing with the girls my age and a year or two younger," Dean explained. "All the girls wanted to be with me. If they didn't sleep with me, they felt unattractive or something. It became such a big thing that they wouldn't be confident enough to attract husbands unless they told everyone they slept with me."

"Unless they…told everyone?"

Dean hesitates for a moment.

"I never slept with most of them," he confesses. "I only let people think that I did."

"Why?" I ask, floored.

"So they could survive," Dean says. "Sometimes, they gave me part of their tesserae, money, or rations."

"But you never…" I can't even finish the sentence as blood rushes into my cheeks.

"No, I have," he says. "Just not nearly as much as I let people think."

Dean's sentence trails off, as well. I'm not sure why the whole issue bothered me so much, or why I feel both relieved and slightly hurt by his answer.

"No one knows," Dean says. "No one but you and Sammy."

I nod. Dean and I finally draw close to one another. We tentatively settle our arms around each other's torsos and drift into an uneasy sleep. As surely as I know I'm thinking of Prim as I fall asleep, I'm sure that Dean is thinking of Sam.

Both Dean and I twitch all night, falling in and out of sleep plagued by nightmares.

Shortly after dawn, I decide to give up on sleep and sit up. Dean is still in the tail end of some bad dream, so I slide away from him gently, and step outside to relieve myself in the small field we had designated to use as our bathroom. Just as I'm refastening my belt, I hear a shout.

"Katniss!" Dean's voice echoes from inside the shelter.

"What?" I call back, stepping around a tree to meet him.

"What's wrong?" He demands, knife in hand.

"Nothing," I say. "Why?"

"I woke up and you were gone," Dean says angrily.

"I had to pee," I shoot back defensively.

"Oh."

Dean deflates a bit, but is still clearly upset. I can tell that he's trying to think of something more to say, to explain his anger, but I cut him off, suddenly uncomfortable.

"The body's gone," I notice.

"Yeah," Dean says. "The Capitol hovercrafts didn't come for it, so the other demons probably did. That's why I want you to stay close, Katniss. It's dangerous out here."

"So," I say after a tense pause, "show me these traps."

Dean shakes his head slightly, as if ridding his ears of water. He kneels down and pushes moss gently aside. Deep crevices split the hard packed dirt, presumably from one of the knives, in a large circle. It's different than the protection symbol that Dean and I both carry, more intricate and a lot larger.

"I put a bunch of them next to each other," he explains. "The edges of the circles touch each other. So, they'll trap demons no matter which way they approach the shelter."

I nod, slightly impressed.

"Show me where I can walk," I say.

Dean shows me exactly where to place my feet, stepping over the point where two circles touch each other, and I memorize it quickly. Then, I head out to check the snares while Dean uses the makeshift bathroom. Not a single snare has been sprung overnight.

"Nothing?" Dean asks as I make my way back to our camp.

I shake my head in response. Dean huffs, and throws me my orange pack. He's already shouldered his black one, and sits, quickly whittling a spear with one of the throwing knives. Dean's weapon of choice is one of his own homemade spears, so he makes quick work of whittling one out of a fallen branch. He ties one of the throwing knives to the blunt end of his spear with some of our quickly depleting supply of rope, probably for close-up combat.

"I put the iodine in your pack," Dean says as he finishes making his new weapon, "and the jug in mine. That way, if we run into trouble, the other tributes won't benefit much from just one bag. I also split up the food. You have the other three knives, though. All I need is this bad boy."

"It's well made," I say. It's true; the spear is well-balanced, perfectly sized for Dean's hands, and formidably sharp.

"Thanks," Dean says, smiling for once.

I randomly notice that his ears twitch up when he smiles, a nearly imperceptible tick that for some reason makes me blush. I'm not sure why I've been blushing so often lately, but we have more pressing matters to attend to, so I turn my back on Dean and start the long trek to the lake.

Dean and I plow through the forest quickly. We prioritize speed over stealth, but we both instinctively take great care to avoid unnecessarily loud movements. We don't speak, and stop only once to eat some of the dried fruit and take just a moment to rest. We have to keep going if we are to make it to the lake and back to our camp before nightfall. It had taken us almost a full day to hike from the lake to our shelter after the cornucopia. We have to be quick, or risk getting caught out at night.

We make it to the lake just after noon, which makes me nervous. Dean and I are drenched in sweat, and in bad need of water. We slow our pace at a clump of bushes near the lake. We crouch down, creeping forward slowly to the bank. Dean keeps his eyes on the cornucopia, which isn't as far from us as I'd like it to be.

I crawl forward on my stomach to the edge of the water, hiding in the reeds. Water soaks my stomach, the front of my pants, even seeps into my boots as I crawl through the mud. I look back, but Dean is staring at the cornucopia. I follow his gaze and see that some tributes—undoubtedly the Careers—have made it into a base of sorts, stockpiling food and weapons in neat piles inside the metal structure.

At the edge of the forest on the other side of the cornucopia, I can just barely make out the Careers huddled in conversation. I'm not sure how many of them are there, but I can clearly see the boy from Three working with the boy from Nine, Marvel. Marvel digs up the ground, while the boy from Three darts around the cornucopia, muttering to himself.

I'm not sure what is going on, but each second that I stay here, the chances of being seen increase dramatically. I risk a low whisper, trying to get Dean's attention. He continues to stare blankly at the boy from Three. Again, I hiss his name, as loudly as I dare. No response. Finally, I flick a small bit of water toward Dean. The droplets of water hitting his face seem to jolt him from his thoughts.

He snaps out of it, and quietly extracts the jug from his bag. He hands it to me. I quickly thrust it into the lake, as far out as I can, trying not to suck in any mud with the water. I cap it, and slowly crawl back toward Dean.

Dean has long since stopped paying attention to me, so I take a moment to drip some iodine into the water, as it will take over an hour to purify this much water. I touch Dean's arm lightly, trying to give him the jug to carry.

He jumps, and then pulls me in close.

"Do you know what they're doing?" he whispers.

Dean's rough, low voice brings heat to both my face and the bottom of my stomach. I shake my head, trying to concentrate on what he's telling me.

"They're digging up the mines," he whispers, making the fine hairs around my ear and all down my spine stand on end. "They're rigging a trap around the cornucopia."

I nod, trying to remind myself that what he's telling me is important.

"So what do we do?" I breathe back into Dean's ear.

"We detonate the bombs," he murmurs. "It looks like that pile over there, the ones they're handling gently, have been re-armed by the boy from Three. This may be our chance to kill a bunch of them, and to eliminate their food supply."

I nod again. I pull out our remaining three throwing knives, and hand them to Dean. We both pull our packs off of our shoulders. Dean hands me one of the knives, handle out. I look at him quizzically. He's good with throwing—spears, mostly, but it's still throwing. I long for a bow and arrow, but Dean's green eyes bore into mine, steady and confident.

I slowly stand, take aim, and hurl one of the knives through the air. It whizzes toward my target, but quickly buries itself in the ground, nowhere near the pile of mines. I'm nowhere near close enough to hit one of the mines.

Dean sighs, and doesn't hand me another knife. I hold my hand out, but he shakes his head, pulling me back down. We're insanely lucky that none of the other tributes noticed my knife fly through the air, and we only have two knives left now. Dean stands up instead.

I notice for the first time just how large Dean is. His height is towering, his muscles taut, his focused eyes drawing tension from his strong jaw. He grips his spear in his hand, takes aim, and launches it through the air, staggering forward with effort.

It hits is mark truly. The mine that Dean hit sets off a chain reaction. The force of the explosion blows us back. My ears ring, my entire head throbs, even my vision is shaky. I sit up, looking around for Dean, but he's already back on his feet. He looks across the cornucopia in fear, scooping up both bags and the water jug. I follow his gaze to see the remaining Careers sprinting toward us, full force.

Dean shouts at me, muffled by the ringing in my ears, but I know what he's saying. I take off into the woods, running in a zigzag pattern as arrows and knives fly by me and Dean. Dean shoots out in front of me, thundering through the undergrowth as he runs.

The blinding pain of an arrow shooting through my thigh brings me crashing down onto the forest floor.


	9. Chapter 9

I whip around, trying to scramble into a defensible position, but Dean has the weapons with him. I feel the ground vibrating with the thumps of incoming hard footfalls. My only thought is to be grateful that Dean has all of the supplies. All he will lose is me, which will leave him free to win the Games. He has all of our supplies; he can survive.

The boy from Two, Cato, the girl from One, Glimmer, the girl from Four, and a badly injured Marvel burst out of the bushes, livid. They smile wickedly as they close in on me. Glimmer the beautiful, silver bow, an arrow notched and strung, but it's the girl from Four who closes in on me, brandishing a hunting knife. I swallow hard, accepting my fate.

"I'm sorry, Prim," I whisper.

Before the anyone can move, a throwing knife whips through the air and embeds itself into the girl from Four's chest. She slumps down next to me, dead, as a second knife finds itself deep in Marvel's left eye. He falls as Dean rips through the trees, screaming terribly. Glimmer turns and flees, but Cato stands his ground.

Dean tackles Cato, and begins to beat him with his bare hands. My hearing is slowly returning, and I vaguely hear him growl something along the lines of, "get away from her."

I pluck the hunting knife from its place next to the girl from Four, and heave myself over to the fight. I'm about to intervene, although Dean clearly has the upper hand, when Cato finds his spear and rams it deep into Dean's abdomen.

"No!" I scream.

Cato laughs, his own blood staining his teeth. I throw the hunting knife, hitting Cato's shoulder. He howls in pain, kicking an injured Dean away.

"Have fun watching you boyfriend die," Cato spits.

I rip the throwing knife from the girl from Four's chest.

"I'll be back for you," Cato warns.

He rips his spear from Dean's stomach and runs away, pulling the knife from his shoulder.

Dean groans in agony. I kneel beside him.

"Dean," I say. "Dean, are you okay?"

"Peachy," he grunts.

"Okay," I say. "Let's get back to the shelter. We'll clean out your wound with the water."

I take off my jacket and wrap it around Dean's abdomen to stop the bleeding, folding it over itself and using the sleeves to tie it tightly. Dean shrugs out of his own jacket and hands it to me. I repeat the process, creating even more pressure against his wound.

"You're hurt," he says, pointing at the arrow embedded in my thigh.

"I'm fine," I say. "See, there's no blood. I'm going to leave the head in."

I snap the arrow shaft off and toss it aside. I try walking a bit, and though it's painful, I can manage with just a slight limp.

"Get all the knives," Dean groans, trying to sit up. "The packs are by a huge pine tree over there."

I follow his pointed finger, and condense the orange bag and the water jug into the black bag. I shoulder it. It's heavy, but I've carried entire deer across my shoulders by myself. I go back to Marvel's body, and twist the remaining knife from his eye, ignoring the fluids that make my stomach turn.

Dean hauls himself to his feet, leaning heavily on me.

"Give me a bag," he demands weakly.

"No," I say. "You can barely stand. We have to get you back."

"You're hurt, too," Dean insists.

"Well, you're hurt worse," I say, throwing his arm over my shoulders despite his protests.

We trudge through the forest as quickly as we can. Dean drives our pace onward, turning much too pale as he forces me to support his power walk.

"We need to stop," I say.

"We need to get there before nightfall," Dean argues.

"You'll kill yourself before we make it," I protest.

"Well then you'll win," Dean jokes humorlessly.

I stop in my tracks. Before I can register what I'm doing, I reach up and smack his face, hard.

"Don't," I say, breathing heavily, "talk like that."

A tense pause bridges the distance between Dean's eyes and mine.

"Sorry," he says.

The surprise in his eyes doesn't confuse me, but I don't offer any explanation. I readjust the bag as it cuts into my shoulders, and haul Dean further through the forest.

I suspect that the Game Makers are putting off the sunset. Dean and I are making much worse time than we were this morning, but the sun seems to be setting slowly. It's probably making for some juicy suspense all over Panem as people watch us struggle to get back by nightfall. I decide not to question it, and continue to drive forward with every ounce of grit in my body.

We reach our shelter as the sun begins to slip through the horizon. I set Dean down heavily and carry the bag into the shelter, careful to step around Dean's traps. I come back out to see Dean staggering toward the mouth of the shelter.

"Stop," I say gently. "Let me help you."

"I'm fine," Dean says, and then groans in pain.

"Clearly not," I say. "Don't be stubborn, I can help you."

"Who are you telling to not be stubborn?"

I sigh at him in exasperation, and force him to sit on a nearby rock. I fetch the water jug from inside the shelter. Dean drinks from it, and then I do. We drink nearly half of our reserve between us, but we both need water. I carefully remove the jackets, and Dean pulls off his shirt. His tattoo and his gaping wound stand out strikingly against his pale skin.

I soak one of the jacket sleeves in water, and carefully clean the edges of the wound. Then, I use half of our remaining water to flush out his wound. Dean gasps in pain, but ultimately grits his teeth and bears the pain with no issue. I re-bandage his bare chest with our jackets. He stares at my face as I tend to his wounds.

Eager to get away from Dean's intense stares, I mumble something about finding food, and walk away. I take a moment to compose myself inside the shelter before throwing together some dinner for us. I split the rest of the dried fruit between me and Dean, and strip some bark from a nearby pine tree to make a passable meal.

"Okay," Dean says as I lay out his food in front of him, "now you."

Before I can say a word, Dean reaches out and grabs my hips. He spins me around and gently removes the arrowhead from my thigh. I can tell that it's missed my major arteries, but it still hurts as it gets pulled from the muscle. Dean uses the last of the water to clean my wound, and wraps his bloody, torn shirt tightly around my thigh as a bandage.

"Thanks," I say.

"No problem, Katniss," Dean whispers. "Thanks for probably saving my life."

"No problem," I echo, taking a bite of fruit as the last feeble rays of sun fade from the world.

Dean and I amble into the shelter together, supporting one another, eager to rest.

The Capitol symbol flashes across the sky, accompanied by the sickening music. The dead tributes are listed.

Marvel, from One. Clove, from Two. The boy from Three. The girl from Four.

"I guess the girl from Two was in the cornucopia," Dean says as the projections disappear. "I injured her yesterday, remember?"

"Yeah," I say. "So, who's left?"

"The girl from One with the ridiculous name," Dean starts.

"Glimmer," I supply.

"Sure," he snorts, "that sounds right. So, her. The son of a bitch from Two, Cato."

"No one from Three or Four, but I think the foxfaced girl from Five is alive," I say.

Dean laughs. His peals of laughter take both of us by surprise.

"Shh," I hiss. "You'll make your wound worse."

"Foxfaced girl?" Dean chuckles, clearly in pain. "Really, Katniss?"

"Hush," I snap, feeling the familiar rush of blood in my face.

Dean quiets down as I think.

"The girl from Eight, right?" I ask.

"Yeah, and the boy from Ten," Dean responds. "And both from Eleven."

"So that's seven left," I say. "Nine, including us."

"Yep," Dean grunts. "And it's Day Two."

"This year's going fast," I say.

"Yeah," Dean says, clearly growing tired. "But at least the Careers are mostly dead. Just Cato and that girl, Shine—"

"Glimmer," I interrupt, smiling.

"Right, Cato and Sparkle," Dean says, his deadpan making me chuckle. "And they don't have food, shelter, or that many weapons."

"We might win this thing," I whisper.

"We have to take out Cato first," Dean says. "And that wall of a guy, Thresh, from Eleven."

"We can do it," I say. "Once we're all healed up."

"Who knows," Dean says, yawning, "maybe they'll kill each other off."

We fall into a more restful sleep in a slightly cooler night. I slowly wake up close to noon. Dean is still fast asleep.

I walk out to relieve myself, and find hundreds of footprints imprinted in the dirt around out shelter. They are just outside the limits of the traps carved into the earth, in all directions. Frantic, I duck back inside the shelter.

"Dean," I say. "Dean, wake up."

Dean's eyes stay shut. His breathing is shallow and uneven.

"Dean?"

I shake him gently. He doesn't move. I shake him harder

"Dean!"

I unwrap the jackets from over Dean's wound. It's clearly infected. I feel Dean's face. Fever.

"No," I whisper. "Dean."

I grab the water jug and iodine, and stuff them into the orange bag. I hesitate. It's after noon. There's no way I can make it to the lake and back by nightfall, and the ominous footprints around our camp are definitely not from tributes.

Dean needs medicine. He needs medicine that I don't have. He needs water. I need to stop the infection. I put the orange bag back inside the shelter. I don't have water, or medicine. I need a sponsor.

"Medicine," I say weakly. "He needs medicine. The wound is infected."

The spectators probably know, as cameras cover every square inch of the arenas every year, but I don't hesitate to exhaust all of my options.

I hit my knees on the hard-packed dirt as I slump down on all fours, rooting through the undergrowth for a plant that may help me.

My mother, being the best herbalist of Twelve, has managed to pound some things into my head over the years. Prim helps her normally now. This is the only time that I could ever wish that Prim was in the arena with me.

I can't find a plant that I can identify, outside of deadly nightlock and some dandelions and lavender. I search until night begins to fall, circling back to the shelter every so often to check on Dean before setting off in a new direction.

Dusk finds me sitting on the same rock where I treated Dean just yesterday, head in my hands.

"He's going to die," I whisper. "I can't let him die."

I can't imagine that will be popular among the spectators and sponsors. We're supposed to be fighting to the death, not worrying about keeping each other alive. I need to explain to them, and maybe to myself, why I need him to be alive so badly.

I slip back into the shelter and crawl up next to Dean. He is sweaty and feverish, but I wrap my arm around him anyway.

"I know I'm supposed to want you to die," I say. "But I can't let you go. Not yet, at least."

I try and figure out why exactly that is. I don't even know, myself.

"It's not that I can't do it without you," I whisper. "I probably can. I don't want to, but I think I can. It's not about me. It's about you."

I swallow foreign emotion, feeling it sting the back of my throat.

"Remember before the Games started," I say, struggling to keep my tone even, "you asked me what I was looking forward to, if I won the games? Aside from survival, and my family and all of Twelve being fed, what small thing would give me comfort? Yours was pie."

I actually smile at the memory. His full, joyous grin as he ate slice after slice of pie. The ecstasy in his face as he ate his very first bite of pie. The intense look in his eyes as we talked about boots and pie, a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

"You love pie," I say. "I'll never forget the first time you had it. I'd never seen you happy before that. Not really. You were fed, free of stress for a moment, and possibly more in love with that pie that you should have been."

I chuckle. Tears prick at the back of my eyes. I'm not sure why this is so hard to talk about.

"Mine was a new pair of boots," I press on. "Boots that fit, with warm lining, not at all falling apart. Boots like I've never had or even seen before."

I hesitate. I know I'm being featured on every screen across Panem, but I can't stop myself. I can't stop the words from pouring out of my mouth, responding to an intense need to tell Dean. I need to tell him why he needs to live—why I need him to live.

"Well, I got my boots," I say. "We always knew it would be just one of us. We both got to be fed, and be stress-free. For a minute, I mean, in the Capitol. We ate delicious food together, wore fine clothes together. But that last night, we were going to have pie. After the interviews. And we never got to. And now I have my boots, and you still haven't gotten your pie."

A pair of hot tears slip from my eyelids. It's silly to be crying over something so small, but I can't help myself.

"I know only one of us will be able to make it home," I continue. "And whoever makes it home, I know we'll make sure everyone is taken care of. I'd take care of Sam like I know you'll take care of my mom and Prim. And Gayle and Hazelle and the kids."

I stare directly at Dean's face now.

"I need you to have your pie," I whisper. "I need you to get home. I have my boots, and I'll die with them on. I need you to get home to everyone, and eat your pie."

On impulse, I press my lips to his temple. Moist heat radiates from his body as small shivers wrack his body. I suddenly can't stand to be near him anymore, not like this.

I stumble outside. I know what I have to do. I go back to the small nightlock berry bush near the lavender. I pocket several deadly nightlock berries.

Dean can't die. Dean has to win. If I have to kill every last tribute and then myself, Dean will win.

I'm shaking as I make my way back to camp.

I check on Dean again. He's still unconscious, and even hotter if possible.

I stagger back outside, and make my way to the rock. I slump down, hopeless. A small movement catches my eye in the gloom.

Rue's unmistakable small frame approaches me timidly. She chews slowly on something.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I say dejectedly. "I have enough to deal with right now. And I don't think I could."

Rue approaches me steadily, every muscle tense. She approaches me from the side, and then kneels carefully down next to me, careful to keep eye contact. Gently, she reaches for Dean's shirt, still tied around my thigh. I look at the wound with Rue.

My wound is beginning to grow infected, as well. I've been so frantic all day that I never noticed the pain. Rue spits something out into her hand. It's a wad of chewed-up leaves. She carefully applies it to the wound, fitting the shirt snugly back around it with ease.

"It will keep the infection out," Rue whispers.

"Where did you get these?" I breathe.

"From a tree over there," she says, pointing behind her. "I heard you talking to Dean. He needs some, too, I think."

"Yes," I say. "Please. I can give you shelter in return, and some food."

"Okay," Rue whispers. "Bring me to him."

"Step exactly where I step," I say.

It's nearly impossible in the darkness, but Rue follows anyway.

"You have traps there, right?" She asks. "I've been hanging around here since yesterday night."

"Yes," I say, letting Rue into our shelter.

It's cramped, but Rue's small frame still fits. Dean's heat fills the tent. Rue chews some leaves as I remove the jackets from Dean's chest. Dean's wound has gotten worse, pus-filled and deep. Rue carefully applies the leaves to the gash. Dean twitches in response, letting out a low moan. We quickly bandage him up again.

"We need food," Rue says. "We all do. And water."

I split half of the dried beef and some bark with Rue.

"We do need water," I say. "We can wake up at dawn, and head to the lake to get some."

"What happened to the lake?" Rue asks. "I haven't been there since I heard it blow up. I was close, about to get some water, when I heard the explosions and ran over here. That's how I found your tent."

"You slept out here last night?"

"Yes," Rue says. "I kept hearing footsteps. It made me really scared, but this place is very well camouflaged."

"Yeah," I say. "I heard them, too."

"It's the NightWalkers," Rue says.

"NightWalkers?" I ask.

"Yes," Rue whispers. "They come into the districts sometimes, but mostly live in the arena. They go inside of people and turn their eyes black. They control their actions, make innocent people do their will. Why else do you think a bunch of children would murder each other?"

Shivers creep down my spine.

"That's why Thresh and I have this," Rue says, pulling out a small bag on a leather string. "Our district tokens. Every tribute from Eleven has them. My dad makes them for everyone. We have them all over the house. They're filled with special dust that keeps evil away."

"Goofer dust?" I ask, breathless.

"Yes," Rue says, "how do you know about it?"

"Dean taught me," I say. "That's another reason why I need him here. He knows all about the evil things in the arena."

Rustling outside cuts Rue's response off.

"Nightwalkers," she whispers.

A small beeping from outside catches my attention. Those beeps mean a package, a gift from a sponsor!

"I need to go get it," I breathe.

"No, Katniss," Rue whispers. "The NightWalkers."

"I can't let Dean die," I say. "I can't."

"I know," Rue says. "What supplies do you have left? Anything you can use?"

I lay out the supplies in the dark, guiding Rue's hands over them and explaining the odd things, like the kindling, the grease tin, and the sunglasses.

"Katniss, put them on," Rue says, handing me the sunglasses.

"Why?"

"Because they're not sunglasses," she says. "They're for seeing at night. We have them in my district. We use them all the time when we have to harvest crops through the night."

I put them on, and see that she's right. I can see everything clearly.

"Okay," I say, grabbing the last two knives that Dean and I have. "I'm going out there. I have to get the sponsor gift."

I step slowly outside the tent and see, as clearly as if the sun was shining, the ominous figures in front of me.

Glimmer, Cato, the girl from Eight, and the boy from Ten all stand before me, just on the other side of Dean's traps, their malicious eyes completely black.


	10. Chapter 10

I stare my new opponents down, my heart in my throat.

"What are you doing?" I say, my voice trembling.

Cato smiles wickedly at me, stepping forward.

"Come over here and we'll show you," he hisses.

"You're demons," I say.

"Very good," Cato hisses. "Your Devil's Traps have made things…inconvenient…for us. How did you know to make them?"

"I learned it from a journal," I say carefully.

"Damn Winchesters," the boy from Ten spits.

"Quiet," Cato growls. "What else did the journal teach you?"

"How to protect myself," I say acrefully. "How to identify demons."

"Well now, that's the issue," an quiet voice murmurs from the darkness next to me.

I whip around to see Foxface sauntering around the edge of the traps, holding my beeping sponsor package in her hands, a wry smile beneath her black eyes.

"You see," Foxface continues, "people don't know that we exist. When someone finds out, we choose them or their kids for the Reaping, and we kill them."

"And one innocent kid gets chosen each year to win," the girl from Eight adds.

"So, you keeping us away, exorcising us," Cato says, "well, it really throws a wrench in our plan."

"So do us all a favor," Glimmer says in a falsely sweet voice, "and let us eat your intestines."

"Otherwise," Foxface says, tossing the package between her hands lightly, "Dean dies. And Dean will die tonight without this fever medicine."

Fever medicine. From the Capitol. Something like that would make Dean much better in a matter of hours, especially with the leaves combating the infection. I need that sponsor package.

"Give me that," I say evenly. "That's mine, and Dean's."

"Why don't you come out here and get it?" Foxface taunts, her lips pulling up in a demented smile.

" _Exorcizamus te_ ," a small voice whispers from beside me.

Rue. She somehow slipped out of the tent without me noticing, and came to stand next to me, one hand on the sack of Goofer Dust around her neck and the other outstretched toward the demons, palm out.

"Omnis immundus spiritus," Rue continues, growing louder in her chanting.

Glimmer and Cato hiss, and immediately disappear, sprinting away through the bushes. The girl from Eight hesitates.

"Omnic satanica potestas," Rue says, continuing the chant with no hesitation.

The girl from Eight takes off after Cato and Glimmer. The boy from Ten grabs Foxface's elbow. They both begin to convulse.

"It's Rufus' kid," he says. "Come on, we can't get exorcised."

Rue's chant continues as I step carefully to the edge of the trap, readying myself to dart over it.

"Come get it," Foxface taunts, holding the package out to me as her body convulses.

"Fine," the boy from Ten hisses. "Don't come crying to me when Crowley won't let you come topside anymore."

With what looks like a huge effort, he runs away, his body still twitching. He falls, not far from us, as Rue continues chanting. Black smoke bursts from the boy's eyes, nose, and mouth, before Rue is done chanting, and shoots up into the night sky.

Foxface still faces me as I recognize the chant starting to end. She convulses, clearly in agony. I take my chance.

I burst forward, and wrench the package from her grasp. I throw it across the trap, near the mouth of the shelter. Foxface grabs me by the throat, bringing me to the ground with unnatural strength. I gasp and thrash against her, but Foxface is too strong. I stab her arms, her hand, even her face, but she doesn't react to the pain. She keeps the knives away from her throat as she bears down on my own throat.

" _Audi nos!_ " Rue finally screams.

Smoke shoots from Foxface's mouth directly into the ground. Her body collapses on top of me. I shove her off, grasping at my throat as I cough.

"Katniss," Rue says.

I scramble back over to her, grabbing her in a tight embrace as she buries her face in my stomach.

"Come on," I say, grabbing the sponsor package, "let's go inside."

Using the glasses, I open the package. It's a small bottle of liquid with a clear line around half of the bottle, and a rubber dropper for a cap. I slowly twist it open, and loan up the small dropper with some sticky medicine. I part Dean's dry, pale lips and slip the dropper between them. I softly stroke his throat, encouraging him to swallow. I repeat the process until I've given him a full dose, half of the small bottle. It may be my imagination, but a small amount of color seems to be returning to Dean's face.

"We have to move the bodies," Rue whispers as I recap the bottle. "Or kill them. If not, they'll wake up and see the shelter, and kill us."

I nod. She's right. I slip the glasses off as dawn quickly approaches. I grab the knives again, and we step outside in the cold gray light of dawn. My heart drops.

Foxface is gone.

I look around for her body, tracks, anything that would indicate where she went. The ground is covered by so many footprints that I can't make sense of anything. I sigh, and stand, looking around at the boy from Ten, still unconscious where he had fallen last night. Rue's small frame is already standing over him. She looks so small and innocent, without even a knife in her hand. She reminds me strikingly of Prim. I know that only one of us can win, but I promise myself to take care of Rue, to give her a fighting chance.

A knife sails through the air and sinks deep into Rue's chest. Foxface stalks toward her menacingly.

"No!" I scream. "No!"

I hurl one of the knives at Foxface. It plants itself in her forehead. She crumples to the ground as black smoke shoots out from her mouth and nose. I run to Rue.

"Rue!" I scream.

I knees beside her, cradling her head in my hands.

"Rue, no."

"Katniss," she gasps. "You have to win."

"I will," I promise. "For both of us."

"Don't go," Rue says, her eyes shining.

"Of course not," I say, holding her as tears prick at the backs of my eyes.

"Show them that they can't control us," she says, her breath labored. "The demons, the Game Makers…they can't play with our lives. Show them, Katniss."

"I will," I promise her.

"Sing," she whispers, so softly that I can barely hear her.

I don't know very many songs. My father used to sing, but it's been years since my mother or Prim or I sang his songs with him. I wrack my brain for a song, and finally find one. It's the one that Dean sings under his breath while hunting sometimes. I hear it whisper through the trees when he occasionally hunts near me and Gale.

"Carry on my wayward son," I sing softly. "There'll be peace when you are gone."

Rue's eyes close softly.

"Lay your weary head to rest."

She slumps into me, breath no longer in her body.

"Don't you cry no—"

My own tears cut off my music. Rue is dead. I place my lips against her temple and set her gently on the ground. Her cannon fires, as well as Foxface's. A Capitol hovercraft appears. They want me to leave, so they can collect the bodies. So they can collect their pieces.

I have to show them that they don't own us. That there's a small part of us that they can't touch, that they can't corrupt or possess. I see a small patch of lavender and wildflowers growing nearby.

I decorate Rue's body. I hide her wound, frame her face, cover her body in color and beauty. They'll have to show this on camera.

How ironic that I'm known for being so hard and calloused in Twelve, but all of Panem will see me as weak and sympathetic.

I finally finish, and step back. Finally at peace, she could almost be sleeping. I ingrain that image into my brain, so I will never forget. I will remember Rue, and I will remember her at peace. The Capitol can never take this away from me.

"Goodbye, Rue," I say, kissing the middle three fingers of my left hand and holding them out to her.

Before the hovercrafts can come down, the boy from Ten stirs. His eyes are normal, human. He doesn't see me, but he spots Rue. He raises his hand, the silver of his knife gleaming as he prepares to strike.

"No!" I scream. "Leave her alone!"

He hesitates at the sound of my voice, but doesn't lower the knife. He smiles. I hurl my last throwing knife into his throat. Another cannon. The hovercraft looms overhead.

I want Rue's body gone, before anything can happen to it. I want her to be at rest. I run back to the shelter, letting the hovercraft collect the three bodies.

I throw myself on the ground inside the shelter, sobbing.

"Katniss?"

My head snaps up at Dean's groggy voice.

"Dean!"

"What happened?" He asks. "Are you okay?"

"No," I say.

I explain everything. Dean looks at me in disgust at the part with the chewed-up leaves, but his infection is so much better that he promptly shuts up. He looks at me sympathetically as I describe Rue's death.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "That sucks."

I can tell that he's trying to be empathetic.

"Yeah," I say, wiping my eyes.

He looks at me. I meet his green eyes. He's looking at me like he has no idea how to help me, which is probably true.

"You need to eat, Katniss," Dean says gently. "You've been through a lot, and it doesn't sound like you've eaten much."

Numbly, I oblige. We split the rest of the dried beef and crackers between us. I fetch some bark and dandelions from outside. As I'm getting ready to duck back inside, loud beeping catches my attention. A sponsor package. I catch it as it floats down by a silver parachute.

Inside is a small, dark, crescent-shaped loaf of bread, sprinkled with seeds. This bread is from Eleven. The people of Eleven can barely afford to feed themselves. I wonder how much this must have cost them, how many people will sit hungry tonight so that I can eat this bread. It was clearly meant for Rue, but the people of Eleven must have authorized Haymitch to give it to me instead when she died.

That's a first. A district gift to another district's tribute.

"My thanks to the people of District Eleven," I say, raising the bread toward the sky.

I duck back into the shelter. I wordlessly hold the loaf of bread out for him to see. He nods somberly.

"Eat up," Dean says.

I start to break the still warm loaf, to split it with Dean, but he stops me.

"No," he says. "You eat it. For Rue. Give me the bark and dandelion."

I protest, but he glares at me. I comply. The bread tastes okay, made from rationed grain. I'm so grateful for the gratitude of the people of Eleven that I decide that it's the best thing I've eaten since the first pie I shared with Dean.

"We need to go for water tomorrow," Dean says, cutting off my thoughts.

"Take more medicine," I say.

He does so, making an awful face as he swallows the last of the liquid.

"I'll go for water tomorrow," I say as he tosses the bottle aside in disgust. "You need to rest."

"You're not going alone," Dean insists.

"You're not going at all," I retort.

"Katniss, we need water," he says hotly. "We have no weapons left. You're not going out there alone."

"Dean, you need rest."

"Don't be a dumbass."

"Stop being an ass."

"You're not going alone."

"Yes I am," I nearly yell. "You're not going, Dean! You wouldn't let me go if I was hurt."

"I don't wanna let you go even now," Dean nearly snarls. "That's why I'm going!"

Before I can retort, a crack of thunder splits the sky. A bright flash of lightening follows, and rain begins to pound the earth. Dean and I look at each other.

"Now why would the Game Makers do that?" Dean asks darkly.

I shrug, but step cautiously outside anyway, setting up the water jug to collect rain.

Cato watches me from the shadows.

"What are you doing here?" I demand.

"You wanted water," he hisses. "Here's water. Let's see how your Devil's Traps hold up against the rain."

I look at the ground, which is immediately turning into mud. The grease and dirt slide off our shelter and run into the puddles around me. The traps will soon be gone.

"We took care of Rufus' daughter, Rue," Cato says. "Isaac and Tamara's son, Thresh, is being taken care of as we speak. He made camp over one large Devil's Trap, carved into the earth."

"Dean!" I call. "The traps!"

"Son of a bitch!" Comes the response from inside the shelter. "We have to move!"

I can feel the plastic and tarp of the shelter moving and twitching behind me. It must be Dean getting the supplies together inside. I need to buy him time to pack our essentials and get himself steady.

"So you picked everyone," I say. "Everyone that knew about demons. So why the land mines?"

"They didn't know about us," Cato laughs. "Marvel, and that boy? Their parents do, but they don't. They were just playing the game. Rue, Thresh, Winchester in there…they know. They need to die."

"Why Sam?" I ask suddenly. "Why Sam and not Dean?"

"Sam believed," Cato shrugs. "Dean didn't."

"And Prim?" I ask, furious.

"She was meant to be our victor," Cato spits. "If you hadn't meddled, Prim would have come home."

"She is _not_ a piece in your games!"

"No," Cato agrees. "she's not, thank to you. Now, you are. Now, you know. And you know what we have to do with people that know about us."

A cannon sounds. Thresh. I look at the ground around us and see muck. The water jug is almost full. I cap it, and turn back to see Dean huddled inside the shelter, ready to sprint. The jackets still hold around his bare torso, protecting his wound. I don't want Dean to overexert himself, but we have no choice, and he has fresh Capitol medicine in his system.

I turn back toward Cato, and find him immediately behind me. He's crossed the trap. I swing the jug up wildly, clocking the side of his head.

"Run!" I scream at Dean.

We thunder through the forest, slipping on the wet leaves. It's well into night now, and the storm makes it impossible to see.

"Come on!" Dean shouts.

Blindly trusting him, I follow the sound of his voice. He tears through the forest. Cato's footsteps follow us, but not closely. I sprint forward, terrified of running headfirst into a tree.

"Here!"

Dean's voice shoots out of the darkness beside me as his large hand grasps my upper arm. He pulls me sharply to the side, and presses my front against a tree.

"Climb," he insists. "Now!"

The bark is slippery, but I'm used to climbing trees. I scramble up quickly. Dean's long limbs climb around me. His body is behind mine, his limbs reach over me as I grasp blindly at branches, using only one had as the other clutches our precious water. He hauls me onto a long, thick branch. I sit on it, and he joins me.

"Good call," I murmur, trusting the sound of the rain to cover my words. "How did you see this?"

"Oh, I have the glasses on," Dean says. "You were right, they're bitchin'."

"Smart," I say, surprised.

"Only sometimes," Dean says.

The rain pouring down on us feels good. Dean hands me the iodine, and I set about purifying the water in the jug as Dean unwraps the jackets from his stomach and lets the rain rinse his wound out.

"Your leg," he says, his voice strained by pain.

I untie his shirt from my thigh, but the wound has begun to close nicely; the leaves have staved off serious infection. The rain still feels nice. Dean and I open our mouths, letting a few raindrops moisten our tongues.

"We have to kill them," I say. "Cato, Glimmer, and the boy from Ten."

"Yeah," Dean says. "We need to set a trap."

"How?" I ask.

"Well, they seem to be demoning out at night," Dean says. "Probably for the cameras' sake. So, we trick and trap the humans during the day."

"Okay," I say. "We'll do it by the lake, by the cornucopia. They have to come to the lake for water, all of this will be mud tomorrow."

"Good," Dean says. "Easier to dig."

"Dig?"

"We have no weapons," Dean says. "We'll have to dig a trap, and force them into it. Then, we can bury them, or throw rocks on them. Or even drown them if we do it close enough to the lake."

I nod. I can't come up with a better plan, so I accept Dean's.

We stay up in the tree for hours. The rain cleanses Dean's wound thoroughly, and gives us plenty to drink. The storm stops suddenly just after dawn.

Dean and I climb down, and trudge the rest of the distance to the lake. We leave clear tracks for the other tributes to follow. We reach the cornucopia before noon. We take care out in the open, creeping quietly among the wreckage. The cornucopia has been blown on its side, making an easily defensible shelter. Dean and I duck inside, setting our bag and water jug just inside of the gaping mouth of the cornucopia.

Dean freezes. My blood runs hot. My heart thumps as I follow his gaze. The boy from Ten lays on a sleeping bag, fast asleep.

Dean looks back at me, regret in his eyes.

He walks over to the boy from Ten, and snaps his neck in one motion. A cannon sounds.

"Azazel?" A voice calls. "Azazel, that better not have been you in that meatsuit."

Glimmer rounds the corner, coming into the cornucopia with a relaxed gait.

She locks eyes with me. I lunge at her, tackling her to the ground in a bear hug. Arrows spill from her quiver across the ground. She and I wrestle for the bow.

Dean's large arms pluck Glimmer easily from the ground, holding her steady.

"Do you want to, or should I?" He asks.

"Oh, you fools," Glimmer hisses. "This meatsuit was the last chance. Now, it's just you two. You kill me, and my boss will kill you."

"Your boss?" Dean demands.

"He's inside the one you call Cato," she explains. "And he's not as nice as me. I'll kill you quickly, I promise."

"Gee," Dean says sarcastically. "Why would we do that, and not kill Cato and send one of us home?"

"You do that," Glimmer laughs, "and we'll come for your families."

Pure rage fills Dean's eyes. He picks Glimmer up, and slams her head hard against the ground. He slams her head down again and again on the hard ground. Blood spills out of her ears, her mouth, her nose. Her skull cracks. Her left eye bone shatters, leaving a bloody abyss where her eye used to be. A cannon sounds. Her head doesn't look human anymore.

Dean doesn't stop.

"Dean," I say. "Dean!"

He continues. I step behind him and grab his arm, wrapping my arms around his elbow. He looks at me, rage and tears in his eyes. He throws Glimmer's dead, disfigured body on the ground.

"No one threatens Sammy," he snarls. "No one."

"Is that so?"

We whip around and see Cato in the cornucopia behind us, smiling and holding a spear, his eyes strangely yellow.


	11. Chapter 11

"Well done," Cato smiles. "You've exorcised several demons here and pissed off a lot more demons down south."

"Yeah, well I'm about to piss off one more," Dean says, stepping further into the cornucopia.

The curved edge of the metal cornucopia force both Cato and Dean to balance awkwardly. Cato—or, the demon inside of Cato—will have the advantage of super strength, but Dean's dexterity comes from hunting and travelling quickly over unpredictable terrain.

"I wouldn't do that," Cato says lightly, his eyes flashing black.

"Yeah?" Dean entices. "Why not?"

"You kill me," Cato says, twirling his spear, "and the Games are ruined. The fragile balance that we keep in check is ruined."

"Killing kids?" Dean demands in an eerily quiet voice. "Forcing kids to kill each other? Possessing them? How is that balance?"

"Long ago, the Games were our way to get souls," Cato says evenly. "It used to be how we kept our numbers up. The human population started to dwindle, so there were…interventions…from enemies of ours."

"Enemies of demons?" Dean asks. "What, you mean everyone?"

"Oh you naïve human," Cato smiles. "Are you really so arrogant to think that the world is small enough to be filled with only humans and demons? Creatures of all kinds crawl through the night. And the day."

"So, what, this is your compromise?" Dean challenges. "You're limited to twenty-four tributes a year? Well, twenty-three."

"In a sense," Cato allows. "It also provides us with a way to manage the population of people who know about us."

"Why?"

"Another facet of our fragile peace," Cato sighs. "Keeping the humans in the dark."

"So why are you telling us this?" I ask, still poised at the entrance. "Why not just kill us?"

"Oh, that violates all the rules," Cato smiles. "See, Cato here is already dead. So if I kill both of you, there's no victor. The humans would lose the last thing they have—hope. And they would rise against the Capitol. And then we'd have to expose ourselves as demons to protect ourselves, and a cosmic war would ensue. And we can't have that. Not yet, anyway."

"So what's with the monologues?" Dean asks, glancing at the spear warily.

"Because," Cato says, "I'm not here to help the Games go smoothly."

Dean glances back at me uneasily as Cato sets his spear down.

"Then why are you here?" I ask.

"I come here each year to take a child," Cato smiles.

"You take children? What do you mean, you take them?" Dean demands.

"Only one per year," Cato says. "I simply collect those children who I have previously selected as infants. I stage the reapings, and collect my rewards."

"You're sick," Dean says, tensing.

I slowly lower myself to the ground as Cato laughs evilly, staring into Dean's eyes. I slowly collect the arrows into the quiver and slip it on.

"Well," Cato says as I rise with Glimmer's Capitol bow in hand, "you're going to love this. And so are you, Crowley," he growls toward the mouth of the cornucopia, where there's surely a camera.

"My pick for this year?" Cato says, yellow eyes gleaming as he turns back to Dean. "It was Sam Winchester."

"You son of a bitch!"

Dean lunges to attack Cato, who sweeps him aside with a lazy swipe of an arm. I notch my arrow and take aim.

"Why?" I demand.

"For the same reason I wanted you two to survive," he smiles. "To make a beautiful mess of Crowley and Lucy's Games, and to play my own wonderful games."

I let my arrow loose, striking Cato in the heart.

"Hear me well, Crowley," Cato hisses, his eyes flashing yellow. "I'll see you on the other side."

Smoke shoots from Cato's mouth, leaving him to drop dead as it streams out through the tip of the cornucopia. I lower my bow.

"You okay?" I call.

"Yeah," Dean grunts, hauling himself to his feet. "Peachy."

"His eyes," I say. "Was that still—"

"A demon?" Dean cuts me off. "Yeah. And he's targeting Sam. God damn it!"

I flinch as Dean punches the thin metal of the cornucopia.

"It's okay," I say, "you'll be back soon, and you'll get to warn him."

"Yeah, as soon as we kill…uh…"

Dean trails off, his brows furrowed.

"Who's left?" He asks.

"Just us," I respond, dropping the bow and quiver gently. "Just you."

"Katniss—"

I turn and run from him. I head for the tall reeds of the lake, pulling the nightlock from my pocket. A few of them are smashed, but more than enough remain intact. I close my fist around them as I hear Dean's footsteps pounding behind me.

"KATNISS!"

Dean tackles me, full force. We wrestle for a moment before he quickly overpowers me. He holds my forearms to the ground, and holds my thighs between his.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" He spits.

"Getting you home to Sam!" I shout in his face.

"What are you going to do, Katniss?" Dean demands. "You're going to kill yourself? Force me to go on? How, Katniss? How the hell could you even consider doing that to me?"

His face is nearly purple, veins pulsing against his taut skin. Sweat and, surprisingly, tears shine on his contorted face as he shouts at me.

"Why, Katniss?" Dean screams. "Why?"

"So you get home to Sam!" I scream back. "Why the hell do you think? Go back, take care of Sam! Take care of my mother and Prim, and the Hawthorns. I know you will, Dean, I trust you."

"You can't do this, Katniss," Dean pants. "You can't."

"Why not?"

Dean looks at me as if trying to take in the entire world before him in a moment. His green eyes shine with intensity, boring into mine. His brows furrow. He can't find the words to answer me.

"Dean—" I begin.

His face slams into mine. Before I can comprehend what he's doing, Dean is kissing me hungrily. His grip on me grows more relaxed, more intimate. Tears slip from beneath my eyelids as I give in. I'll be dead in a few minutes anyway, so I allow myself to give in to Dean, just this once.

His mouth moves against mine in a synergetic rhythm. He tastes like pine bark, salt, and the faintest hint of iodine, but he smells like the forest and the Hob and cherry pie all at once. His arms stroke against me lovingly, against my arms, my neck, even cupping my head.

A sob rips itself from my lungs, cutting off the heated kiss.

"Katniss," Dean whispers.

I tear myself from his grasp, but I'm not even able to get upright again before Dean pulls me back down.

"Katniss, please!"

The hurt and desperation in Dean's voice breaks me. I face him.

His face contorts as he actually cries, for the first time, in front of me.

"Please, Katniss," Dean whispers. "I love you."

I sob in response. Dean pulls me by my forearms. I sit facing him, with my knees up protectively and my feet flat on the ground. Dean mirrors me, his knees on one side of mine. I can break free of him, but for some reason, I choose not to.

"Dean," I say, my congested nose clouding my speech. "I love you, too."

Dean's eyes dart between my own, searching for the answer to his unspoken question. I nod.

"It's terrible," I say. "Being together is impossible. Any future in Twelve is miserable at best. We can't do anything about it. But what I can do, is die for you. I can die so that you can live, so you can take care of Sam, and my family, and the Hawthorns."

"You do that," Dean sniffs. "Let me die."

"No," I say immediately.

"Please, Katniss," Dean implores, his voice cracking. "I can't live…I don't want to live…without you."

"Dean," I whisper, trembling with emotion, "don't make me live without you."

We sit in silence for what seems like hours, sniffling, ripping apart inside with hot, nauseating agony. The expression "heartbreak" has never resonated with me before now, before this awful moment in which I physically feel my heart shattering.

"How?" Dean finally asks. "How were you going to—"

I understand, and slowly open my hand to show him the nearly dozen nightlock berries, now warm and mushy in my sweaty palm.

His eyes meet mine, as we both try to stem our flow of tears.

"We're a mess," I say.

"Yeah," Dean chuckles mirthlessly. "Look at us, the big, surly badasses from training. The quiet ones from twelve. I guess we really are defined by mushy family love."

"I don't love you like family," I say, meeting Dean's eyes.

"I know," Dean says, holding my gaze levelly. "I heard you, that night in the tent. When I was unconscious. That's why this is killing me so much."

"It's killing us both," I whisper.

"Killing us both," Dean repeats, his brow furrowing in concentration. "That's an idea."

"What?"

"You really want to show them we're not part of the Games?" Dean says, sitting up with strange excitement. "Let's stop playing. I don't have to live without you, you don't have to live without me. Let's take this one chance. Let's stop playing. We don't have to be miserable."

"What are you saying?" I ask in a low voice.

Dean carefully plucks half of the nightlock berries from my palm. He repositions, kneeling in front of me. I mirror him, understanding his intention.

"On three," Dean says.

I nod. Blood pounds in my ears.

"One," I say.

"Two," he whispers, reaching up to cup the side of my face.

"Three," we say together.

We reach up and put the nightlock berries into our mouths, maintaining eye contact as we do.

"STOP!" A voice booms down from the sky. "Stop, stop!"

A Game Maker's voice echoes through the arena.

"It seems we have two victors of this year's Hunger Games!" The voice says quickly.

Dean and I make eye contact, floored. We spit out the berries anyway, trying in vain to rid all of the juice from our mouths. Dean turns from me, and forces himself to vomit. I turn away and do the same. Coughing, I stagger to the lake and rinse out my mouth. Dean follows.

"Did you swallow any of the juice?" I ask.

"No," Dean grunts. "If I had, I'd be dying by now."

I let out a sigh of relief as a Capitol hovercraft materializes overhead. The victor music plays.

"Ready to catch hell?" Dean asks, a small grin tugging his lips up at one corner.

"This is not the time for puns," I respond.

A smile overtakes me anyway. Relief begins to surge through me. I've made it. We made it. We're leaving the godforsaken arena. This is a better outcome than any I could have hoped for. I know we'll have so much to deal with once we get back to the Capitol, but just for a moment, I bask in the giddy relief of the ladder being lowered from the hovercraft into the arena.

"Come on," Dean says, holding the ladder with one hand and extending the other out to me.

I take it, and Dean spins me, pressing my back against the ladder and lifting me up a couple of rungs. I hold onto the sides, standing at eye level with Dean as he balances with one foot on the bottom rung. He uses one hand to steady himself and the other to snake around my waist.

We kiss, and it tastes of freedom and joy.

A small electric current freezes us in place as the ladder slides back up into the hovercraft. We stay, frozen in our kiss, until we tumble together through the hovercraft doors. Dean chuckles at our compromising position, and I can't help smiling.

Suddenly, Dean is ripped from me. Black eyes flash all around us.

"Dean!" I scream.

Before I can even stand, several pairs of hands restrain me. Dean fights valiantly against his captors, screaming for me. I continue to struggle as they finally overpower Dean. We both fight, cursing and thrashing, until I see one of them inject Dean's neck with some liquid.

"No!" I yell as he slumps down, unconscious or dead, I can't tell. "DEAN!"

A sharp pain in my own neck is the last thing I feel before the world goes black.

I wake up slowly in a white room, several tubes in my arms, restrained by thick metal bands across my limbs and stomach. Several voices shout in another room nearby.

"Dean," I whisper.

Liquid slides through one of the clear tubes and into my arm. My vision goes black once again.

When I finally wake up all the way, a haggard Haymitch stares at me from the foot of my bed. My restraints are gone, as are the tubes.

"Well done," Haymitch says dryly. "You've made a wonderful mess of things."

I rise, unsteady on my feet. I can tell that I'm much thinner than I was before the Games. Haymitch hands me some clothes, and turns so I can change.

"Effie, Cinna, and I have been fighting nonstop," Haymitch says. "They can't execute you, that would surely cause an uprising. But I knew they'd go for your families next."

I freeze, one leg still raised, halfway in a pant leg.

"I fought like hell," Haymitch continues tiredly. "I told them that I knew what their plan was, and if they harmed any one of your family members, or the Hawthorns, that you and Dean would surely make it public. In the end, they conceded. It wasn't easy, and believe me, they'll be watching you, but they backed off. At least, for now."

"Thank you," I say, nearly crying with relief. "Where's Dean?"

"He's better," Haymitch says. "The infection spread to his bloodstream. It was a miracle he was able to do half the things he did in the arena. That boy's pain tolerance is unreal. It wasn't easy to keep him alive and intact, but the doctors managed it."

"Can I see him?"

"No," Haymitch replies shortly. "They want to do the reunion live during your victory interview. I'm here to escort you to Cinna—well, to your prep team."

"Okay," I say, fully dressed. "I'm ready."

"You listen to me now," Haymitch says desperately, striding across the room to me. "You were in love. You were blinded by love, so consumed with the fear of never seeing Dean again, that you chose to die for love."

"Yes," I say defensively. "I'm not proud of it, but that's what happened."

"Good," Haymitch nearly growls. "Be proud of it, damn it! Play the crap outta that angle, sweetheart. Do not give them any reason to see any hint of rebellion against the Capitol in what you did."

I swallow hard, understanding. Without another word, Haymitch escorts out of my room and into a pain white hallway. With each step, weariness grows in Haymitch.

He must have been fighting for my family's lives for days, if not weeks. Emotion bubbles up within me, but I stifle it. Dark rings have sunken in below Haymitch's eyes, and walking seems to be an effort for him. He leads me through a maze of hallways automatically.

We're back at the training center, I realize. I open my mouth to ask Haymitch a dozen questions, but promptly close it on second thought.

"Thank you, Haymitch," I whisper.

"Don't get all mushy, sweetheart," he sighs, but there's no bite in his retort. "I'll be damned if I let anyone's family suffer for someone not wanting to die."

A group of Peacekeepers appear, a little too conveniently timed, and stalk down the hallway, pushing past us without a second glance.

Haymitch and I walk in silence until we reach the prop room.

My prep team gets me waxed, trimmed, and polished in record time. They chatter on about the Games, recounting where they were and what they were doing during certain tributes' deaths. They way they speak about it, like the deaths were merely television events rather than actual deaths, nauseates me.

Finally, Cinna gets ahold of me, and puts me into a simple, yellow dress that shimmers as I move. Looking in the mirror, the dress and the soft, pink-toned makeup I wear make me look young, about fourteen.

"I look very—"

"Sweet," Cinna interrupts. "Dean will love it."

His gold-rimmed eyes bore into mine, clearly pressing me to heed his unspoken words. I have to play the young girl in love, not the strong, rebellious victor. I nod. Cinna nods back, and escorts me to the door, where Haymitch waits in the hallway.

Cinna and Haymitch escort me to Cesar Flickerman's stage, where I will be interviewed alongside Dean. They waste no time in starting the spectacle.

I walk out onstage, nervous, a fake smile plastered painfully on my face.

Dean enters from the opposite side of the stage, wearing a yellow shirt and khaki pants.

My breath catches. All thoughts of the Games, demons, and the Capitol disappear from my mind. He's here, he's alive. We both survived. His green eyes capture me from across the space. My feet move of their own volition.

"Dean!"

I cover the wide space between us in just three steps as he runs to meet me halfway. I throw myself into his arms as he wraps them around me, spinning me around. His grip on me tightens as we meet in a desperate kiss.

Fire surges through my veins as we kiss. The eruption of cheers pales in comparison to the reaction in my chest. Dean's lips on mine taste vaguely like makeup, but he still smells of the forest, the Hob, and cherry pie. His arms around me, his lips on mine…I feel relief in every in every inch of my body, like I've come home after a long, hard day.

Cesar places a hand on our shoulders. Dean lifts one arm from me, and pushes Cesar away with one solid movement. The crows screams and cheers in response. Dean places his arm back around me, turns, and dips me, deepening the kiss.

I'm glad that Dean is supporting all of my weight, as my knees turn to jelly.

One of my hands holds the side of Dean's face, stubble gently scraping against my tender palm as his jaw moves with the kiss. My other arm wraps around Dean's neck as I help him hold my weight. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt as a familiar heat grows in the bottom of my stomach, and blood rushes to my face.

"All right, all right," Cesar insists, though the crowd boos him.

Dean sighs before finally breaking the kiss. He presses his lips tenderly to my forehead for a moment. He grabs my hand and pulls me to a standing position, twirling me as he does so. Dizzy, I lean against Dean, probably more than I need to.

Cesar ushers us to a loveseat, before seating himself in his own chair.

I tense as the crowd dies down, and feel Dean stiffen beside me. This is the last game we will have to play, and as always, the prize is our lives.


	12. Chapter 12

"Well now," Cesar begins. "Let's recap."

Dean and I turn to the large screen behind Cesar. Dean nestles me under one of his arms. I grasp his other hand and lay my head of his shoulder. The montage starts, showing footage from the arena while broadcasting my and Dean's reactions in a small square in the corner of the screen.

They start with Dean and me on our metal plates, his eyes telling me which bag to grab. They show the boy from Nine fighting me over the bag, and Dean saving me from Clove. They focus on me and Dean fleeing, and then show all of the deaths from the bloodbath, including Clove hiding, injured, inside the cornucopia.

They spend some time showing me sorting supplies and Dean setting up the campsite, and our argument over whether to stay or go. All of our conversations about demons have been conveniently edited out, and the cameras show me setting snares rather than Dean making the traps.

They show the inside of our tent. Hot blood floods my cheeks. I knew that the cameras had been there, but I still hate the idea of sharing my most intimate moments with all of Panem.

Dean shifts uncomfortably as he watches his past self talk about the girls in Twelve. The audience sighs when we finally relax into one another under the sleeping bag.

The footage cuts to our trek to the lake, and focuses on Dean figuring out the Careers' plan. They show my pathetic knife throw, and Dean's lifesaving spear action. I wince as I watch us get blasted back. They show Dean collecting the supplies, and yelling for me to run. I remember not being able to hear much, and it's obvious that my ears were damaged as I stumble after Dean.

They show me getting hit with the arrow, but focus more on Dean.

Dean thunders through the forest, glancing back toward me every few seconds. He stops short, quickly realizing that I'm not following him. His face turns pale as he drops the supplies and sprints back, brandishing the two throwing knives. He crashes into the clearing where the girl from Four looms over me.

"NO!" He roars, his face contorted, inhuman.

I gasp as he throws both knives in quick succession before leaping over me protectively. Pain and lack of hearing must have muddled my memory, because Dean's unbridled rage is something that I won't forget.

"You stay away from her," Dean snarls as he and Cato engage in combat.

As they fight, I notice something. It's quick, and barely visible, but for just a moment, Cato's eyes flash yellow. The spear finds Dean's abdomen a moment later.

I gasp audibly as the Katniss on the screen screams. The audience murmurs sympathetically.

I can barely watch as they show our trek back to the shelter. They linger on my desperation in the next day. My frantic search for plants, begging the sponsors for medicine, my intimate soul-baring with an unconscious Dean. They focus on the moment when I go back for the nightlock berries.

Dean tenses beside me as he watches me pocket the nightlock berries, but I keep my attention on the screen.

Tears well up in my eyes as they show Rue onscreen. I look away from the screen until well after her death, burying my face in Dean's shoulder as he rubs my arms comfortingly.

They claim lost footage for a lot of the rest of our time in the arena. They barely explain how Dean got medicine, and show only that we run from Cato in the rain, and Dean saving my life by pulling me into the tree.

They skip the cornucopia scene entirely, except for a brief moment of Dean smashing Glimmer's dilapidated skull, and claim that the footage is too gruesome.

They cut to me running from the cornucopia, and play the rest of the Games in real time, focusing on our declarations of love.

By the time Cesar turns to us, his eyes shine with restrained tears.

"Wow," he says. "Simply stunning. The shortest Games in history, at only five days long. And, of course, the only Games in history with two victors. Now, let's start there. Take us back to that moment, once the remaining tributes were dead. What exactly happened?"

"I hadn't realized that it was just us two left," Dean says. "Before I could say anything, she took off running."

"And what was going through your mind in that moment, Dean?"

"That she was about to do something stupid," Dean responds with a glare at me.

"Something like?" Cesar prompts.

"Something like kill herself so that I'd win," Dean says. "I was terrified. I thought I'd never see her again."

The crowd sighs. Cesar lays a hand dramatically over his heart.

"And he was right, wasn't he, Katniss?" Cesar asks.

"Yes," I say. "In that moment, I knew only one of us could come home. I didn't even think about it, I just knew what I had to do."

"And you'd planned this, yes?" Cesar asks. "You had the nightlock berries already."

I nod. Dean is glaring holes into the side of my head, but I stare pointedly at Cesar's tie.

"When did you know, Katniss?"

"In the tent," I whisper, "when I realized that I love him."

The crowd murmurs and groans empathetically.

"And when did you realize that you love her, Dean?"

"When she smacked me," Dean says.

The crowd and Cesar laugh in surprise. Even I find the courage to meet Dean's eyes, but there's no humor in them.

"She smacked me for saying that it would be better if I died," Dean says. "In that moment, I realized that she loved me. And that I love her right back. I was in and out of it in the tent, but I remember most of what she said. That's why it killed me when she ran from me. I knew that we loved each other."

"So Dean, what prompted you to take part in Katniss' noble suicide attempt?" Cesar asks.

"The thought of living without her," Dean replies roughly. "I've already lost my mom, my dad…I never got to say goodbye to my brother…Katniss was the last person I thought I'd ever see, that I loved. I couldn't bear the thought of losing her, too…of her leaving me, too."

Dean looks away from me. I stretch out a hand, and cup his chin, bringing him back. He is fighting down emotion, but I force him to look into my eyes. I kiss his lips tenderly.

"I could never leave you," I murmur. "I only did it to help you get back to Sam, because I love you."

Dean pulls me in close, wrapping both arms around me and tucking my head under his chin. The crowd lets out an audible "aww" as he presses his lips to the top of my head.

"So then, Dean," Cesar says, bringing us back to the interview, "you came up with the idea to both eat the nightlock berries. Walk us through that."

Dean stiffens. This is it, the moment that all of Panem watches with bated breath, the answer that seals our fates.

"I didn't want to play the Games," Dean whispers. "Because no matter what outcome, I realized I'd lose. And I'd lose so much more than just a game. No matter what the outcome, either way, I'd lose Katniss. And I couldn't bear to lose her."

Cesar nods sympathetically.

"Well, that certainly is moving," he says, wiping a small tear from the corner of his eye. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce the victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Dean Winchester, the lovers on fire!"

The crowd bursts into wild cheering. President Snow joins us onstage, holding crowns for moth me and Dean. He turns his back to the crowd to crown us.

"Hello, victors," he murmurs, his eyes flashing blood red. "Quite a stir you've caused."

I blanch. The accent that colors Snow's voice is new and foreign. His eyes are clearly inhuman. Dean grasps my hand, and I know what he's thinking.

 _Demon._

"Well, we'll just have to clean up this mess during the victory tour," Snow continues, smiling as his eyes switch back to their normal, human blue. "See you then, victors."

Dean and I cling onto one another the entire way back to the train, fake smiles stamped on our faces. We don't dare speak a word until we're safely back in Twelve.

During the ride home, Dean and I occupy our time with Effie, who has taken it upon herself to begin scheduling the victory tour. Even though it's months from now, Effie already has outfit designs from Cinna and an itinerary outline of which districts we will visit in which order.

Our homecoming in Twelve is nearly a riot. Every resident of Twelve floods the streets, forcing Peacekeepers to make a path for us to walk through to the Square, which has been cordoned off. Inside the square, a small group of people await us.

"SAM!"

Dean shoots forward, pushing Peacekeepers out of his way as he sprints into the square. Sam meets him halfway, and the two brothers collide in a hard, emotional hug.

"Katniss!"

Prim's voice cuts through the crisp air across the square. She is running at me, her small eyes filled with tears.

"Prim," I whisper, before running to meet her.

I drop to my knees and cling to her. My mother rushes over to join our hug as Prim cries.

"I was so scared, Katniss," Prim sobs. "I was so afraid that you wouldn't come home!"

"I'm home," I say, holding both her and my mother. "I'm here now, I'm home."

I blink back tears, and look around the square to see a pair of dark green eyes, holding back emotion in their strong frame. I rise, detaching myself from my mother and Prim. I stride across the square, gathering speed as I get closer.

Gale scoops me up in a hug so tight that I fear I may feel my ribs crack. I don't care.

"Hi, Gale," I whisper.

"Good job, catnip," he murmurs back.

"I don't know how I made it," I say.

The banquet in Twelve is a blowout celebration, provided be the Capitol, like every year. My mother, Prim, Sam, and the Hawthorns all join me, Dean, Haymitch, and Effie at the victors' table. For just a moment, everyone is happy. Every single person in Twelve is full. My classmates congratulate me, my father's old friends clap me and Dean on the back. Even the baker's son, Peeta, who I've never spoken to before, approaches me.

"Congratulations, Katniss," Peeta says.

"Thanks. Peeta, right?"

"Yeah," Peeta says, his cheeks tinged with pink. "My whole family was rooting for you to win. I'm really glad you came home."

"Thank you," I say.

I'm not sure what else to say to the boy as he stares at me, so I mumble something about dessert and excuse myself. It takes me a while to shake a strange warmth from my stomach as Peeta's eyes linger on me.

Effie outdoes herself by unveiling her best surprise yet—hundreds of pies, more than enough for all of Twelve. And for the victors' table, a massive cherry pie, wider than my arm span, still steaming. Dean's jaw drops at the sight of it. Pure joy overtakes his face. We all indulge in several pieces of sweet, warm pie.

"Well, you finally got your pie," I say as Dean polishes off his fifth piece.

"Katniss," Dean says, turning to me with a smear of cherry juice on his bottom lip, "I have so much more than that. I have you."

I blush and smile as he puts an arm around me.

"And baby," he continues, his green eyes staring deep into mine, "you _are_ my boots and pie."

I have no words to express my feelings for Dean. He kisses me, and I pour all of my emotions into the kiss. Everyone and everything else fades from the background.

Dean's lips move naturally in time with mine. He smells and tastes of cherry pie, the Hob, and the forest, but he feels like home. I feel as if I'm communicating with him through the kiss. I pour my energy, my emotions, my happiness, my fears, bits of my own soul into the kiss. Dean responds passionately, even tenderly at times. I draw back slightly and look into his eyes.

He looks back at me. The emotion in his eyes is not one I've ever seen before. Deep happiness mixes with peace and belonging as he stares at me like I am the only thing in the world that he wants to look at. I see the unspoken promise of forever shining in those dark green eyes.

I know because it's a reflection of my own feelings.

Dean and I move into our houses in the Victors' Village the next day. We decide to live in my house, and set my mother, Prim, and Sam up in Dean's house. Dean gives his old house to Gale, lightening the burden on Hazelle. We transform my mother's old house into the infirmary of Twelve.

The weeks following the end of the Games are surreal. Dean and I live in happiness. We hunt together, eat together, trade at the Hob together, even go for walks and swim in the streams in the forest together. Falling asleep next to Dean each night and waking up to his smile every morning brings steady warmth to my chest.

Desperation begins to fade from Twelve as extra rations pour in from the Capitol, a result of my and Dean's victory in The Games. It takes weeks, but Dean and I finally relax, our nightmares slowly beginning to subside. We eventually fall into a simple, blissful routine. We start to accept a new, steady way of life, a new normal.

I wake one night with a start. Dean sleeps fitfully next to me, but I am drenched in sticky sweat. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones.

"Dean," I say, shaking him. "Dean, wake up."

He wakes with a start.

"What? What is it?"

"Something's wrong," I say, "I can sense it."

"Yeah, me, too," he responds, scrambling out of bed.

We waste no time in getting dressed and running across the street to the house where my mother, Prim, and Sam live. We burst through the front door to find my mother pacing through the kitchen, ignoring Haymitch's low voice and Prim's anxious stares.

"…gotta be around somewhere," Haymitch is saying. "Let's just go look for him."

"What's wrong?" Dean demands.

"You feel it, too, Katniss?" Prim whispers. "Something's wrong."

I stride to where Prim sits and embrace her, holding tightly as I turn to Haymitch.

"What happened?"

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks.

"That's just it," my mother murmurs. "We don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Dean demands.

"Well, he's been going off at night lately," Haymitch says. "He won't let any of us go with him. He says it has to do with some secret information that we can't know, or 'they' will come find us, whoever 'they' are."

Dean and I exchange a knowing but terrified glance.

"He always takes that book, your father's journal," Haymitch continues. "He goes into town to meet with some others who apparently know."

"Who?" Dean demands again, angrily.

"We don't know—"

"Madge, the mayor's daughter," Prim interrupts. "Peeta, the baker's son. And all the Hawthorns."

"How do you know?" Haymitch asks, surprised.

"I followed him a few nights ago," Prim admits. "I had a bad feeling, like tonight but not as strong. I was scared for Sam."

"What did you see?" I ask gently.

"They gather behind the mayor's house after dark, in their gazebo," Prim says. "I saw a couple of Peacekeepers, Madge, Peeta, Hazelle, Vick, Posy, Rory, Gale, Delly Cartwright, and a few other people. I couldn't hear them, but they were all sitting in a circle, and Sam was talking to them with the journal open in front of him."

"What happened then, Prim?" Dean asks, softly this time.

"Another Peacekeeper caught me," Prim says. "He told me to get home or he'd whip me, so I left. Sam came home about an hour after me."

"Okay, let's go," Dean says.

"No, Katniss," my mother implores as I follow Dean to the door. "It's too dangerous."

I ignore her plea, but Haymitch and Prim stay with her. Dean and I jog through Twelve rather conspicuously, but eerily, there are no Peacekeepers are on the streets to question us.

We run into the gazebo and stop short. Thick blood pools around the soles of our boots. Dean switches on the light.

I fall to my knees beside Posy's dead body.

Hazelle, Posy, Vick, Rory, Madge, Delly Cartwright…all dead. Several Peacekeepers also lie dead next to them. Blood flows from under all of their heads.

"What happened here?" I ask, my voice grinding out in a strangled whisper.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks.

I look around. Sam's body is nowhere to be found. On the far side of the gazebo, a pair of boots and long, thick legs stick out from the side entrance.

"Dean," I whisper, staring at them.

Dean follows my gaze.

"No," he whispers before running to the body. "Sam."

I walk numbly over to the body, intent on comforting Dean, but stop once I see the body. It isn't Sam who lies there, dead.

It's the baker's son, Peeta Mellark.

Deep pain pangs through my chest. I can't breathe. Dean rushes out, calling Sam's name so loud that neighbors start to wake up. I can't tear my eyes away from Peeta's—cold, lifeless, framed by a face still frozen in terror. I reach down and gently slide his eyes closed.

"Katniss!" Dean yells, suddenly by my side, grasping my arm painfully. "We have to leave."

"What?" I ask stupidly.

"Come on, we have to go," Dean presses urgently. "We have to find Sammy. People are starting to wake up. We can't be seen here."

I let him pull me to the door of the gazebo. Hot tears dry on my cheeks before I notice them falling.

"Damn it, we're covered in blood," Dean growls. "They'll find us, they'll follow the blood trail."

Deep inside me, my instincts agree with Dean, but I can't break through the layers of numbness to make a move.

"Katniss, come on," Dean insists, already stripping.

He helps me rip my clothes from my body. He forces me to be careful not to step in blood as we flee. He forces me to move quickly through the shadows of District Twelve, hugging the fence as we run home.

All I can think of is my boots, strewn beside Peeta's dead body, soaked in his blood.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean and I burst into the house, startling my mother, Prim, and Haymitch.

"Katniss!" My mother yelps. "Why are you in your underwear?"

I simply sit, frozen, as Dean explains what we've seen. Prim wraps me in a blanket, and Haymitch throws his robe at Dean, unabashed at sitting before us in just his pajama pants.

My mother and Prim sob openly after hearing about Hazelle and the kids.

"What about the older boy, Gale?" Haymitch asks.

Dean and I look at each other.

"I didn't see him," Dean says, "and I checked every inch of that place."

"He may be alive," I whisper. "He and Sam may have gotten away."

"If anyone survived, it would be those two," Haymitch allows.

"Maybe," Dean allows. "Wherever they are, I intend to find them."

"It's not dawn yet," my mother says. "You don't want to be caught out after curfew tonight, you'll be hanged. It's a miracle you made it back unnoticed."

"I can't just do nothing," Dean growls.

"Of course not," Haymitch says, "but you have to look innocent. Here's what you're gonna do. Go back home and change, both of you. We'll start breakfast here. When they come around and investigate for alibis, we'll all be together in a believable situation. Once they give us the bad news, we'll go out and look."

"We'll check Hazelle's house, and your old house, Dean," my mother says. "We have to clean out the house for Hazelle anyway."

My mother is overcome with emotion and begins to cry. Neither Dean nor I can handle it, so we both leave.

We head back to our house, saying nothing as we head to the bedroom and put clothes on.

"Here," Dean says after a moment.

I turn and look. He's holding my pin in his hand. He must have had the good sense to take it from my shirt when he helped me undress from my bloody clothes.

"Thank you," I whisper, pinning it to my shirt before pulling a jacket on over it.

"You should get it tattooed," Dean says.

"We all should," I agree.

"In the meantime, I made you something to help."

Dean reaches around me into the closet and pulls out a belt. A sheathed dagger hangs on either side of the belt, with several small compartments along the front of the belt.

"This compartment has salt," Dean says, showing me. "This is Goofer Dust, this one has a paper inside with the exorcism written on it. This little bottle is supposed to be Holy Water, but we haven't tried it yet."

"How do I use it?"

"Throw it in a demon's face," Dean replies. "it's supposed to burn like acid."

"Thank you," I say as I strap on the belt, hiding the daggers in the waistband of my pants.

"You're welcome, baby," Dean says, pulling my shirt down over the belt and kissing me softly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I say, taking Dean's hand and allowing him to lead me back to the outside world.

When Dean and I return, we all follow Haymitch's instructions and eat, even though breakfast tastes like cardboard and the small talk is strained. As if on cue, three Peacekeepers interrupt us during breakfast, but the interrogation is halfhearted.

Even the Peacekeepers can sense the grief numbing us.

After we choke down breakfast, we all head to Hazelle's house. My mother and Prim, monitored by Peacekeepers, actually start cleaning it out, saving precious things like baby blankets and Hazelle's favorite dress. They also take all of the food, although it pains them to do so. My mother suggests handing it out to the others who have lost family members, as we have more than enough victor's winnings to support what's left of our family.

Haymitch, Dean, and I scour every inch of Hazelle's house, and find nothing. The Peacekeepers escort my mother and Prim home, laden with the Hawthorns' things.

"My old house," Dean says. "Gale was living there. They might have gone there."

Haymitch and I agree, and follow Dean.

Immediately, we can see that someone has been living there, or has at least been inside. Random belongings are strewn about everywhere, furniture is overturned, salt and Goofer Dust are strewn across the floor.

"What the hell?" Dean whispers, opening cabinets at random.

"What?" I ask.

"It had to be Sam," Dean says. "All our weapons are gone, all the salt and Goofer Dust, all of our protections."

"Gale was living here," I insist desperately. "Sam was teaching him about demons and such, maybe Gale gathered the weapons and left…"

I trail off as Dean removes a loose floorboard to reveal a small hole in the dirt beneath it, obviously empty.

"Not Gale," Dean says tightly.

"What was there?" Haymitch asks.

"A gun," Dean responds. "A very special gun."

"What's so special about it?" Haymitch asks curiously.

"It can kill anything," Dean responds "even things that can't be killed with guns."

"How?" I ask.

"Magic, probably," Dean snorts, "or some ancient runes or spells. The journal led us to it. Well, it led Sam. While we were in the arena, Sammy went and tracked down a few leads from the journal that I hadn't let him go chase while I was here. This gun—the Colt—was one of them."

"Where did he find it?" Haymitch interrupts.

"In the forest," Dean says. "Our dad left very specific instructions to the place where he buried it, and another place where he stashed the bullet. I didn't let Sam go because it was too dangerous, but it figures that he'd go when I wasn't here to watch him."

"Where would he have gone with the gun?" Haymitch asks.

"Away," Dean sighs. "Into hiding somewhere, away from demons, away from innocent people who might get hurt."

"Well, that narrows it down," says Haymitch dryly.

"Hey, I'm trying here," Dean snaps.

"Well, try harder, princess," Haymitch snarls. "I didn't work my ass off in the Capitol for your families to be spared, just to turn around and lose them!"

"We haven't lost Sam," Dean yells, "he's out there, hiding somewhere!"

"And what a great help that is when we don't know where he is," Haymitch says. "He could be hurt, Dean, or dead, or worse."

"You think I don't know that?!" Dean yells, a murderous look on his face. "He's my brother, Haymitch! He's my family."

"You think I didn't have a family once, too?" Haymitch says, his voice deadly quiet. "You think I haven't suffered at the hands of the Capitol? You think I haven't had family members go missing in the middle of the night? You think I don't see their faces every time I close my eyes?"

Dean and I stare at Haymitch in stunned silence.

"Or how about the tributes I've helped over the years?" Haymitch continues. "How many do you think that is, huh? How many innocent children do you think I've watched die, because I didn't train them well enough? How many well-trained tributes do you think I've seen fighting for their lives until the cameras go black, then all of a sudden, their dead body pops up on the screen in front of me? How many, huh? How many do you think I've lost?!"

Haymitch's rant end with a scream, inches from Dean's face.

"Haymitch," Dean begins.

"Forty-six," Haymitch interrupts. "I've seen forty-six kids die, forty-seven if you count my district partner when I competed. So don't get mad at me, boy, when I'm trying to save Sam from being just another kid I've watched die."

Tense silence falls on the room. Dean doesn't apologize, but Haymitch and Dean study one another's unreadable expressions for a while. At once, they both sigh, and look away.

"So," Haymitch says, taking another calming breath. "Where might he have gone? Would he still be in Twelve?"

"Probably not," Dean says. "If he is, he'd be hiding with a friend, and all our friends are either dead, or our roommates."

"I can check the Hob just in case," I say. "I can turn a few tongues loose for the right price."

Haymitch nods. "Good idea. Dean and I can search the forest, then. Do you have the journal?"

Dean shakes his head.

"Looks like we're looking for a pine needle in a forest," Haymitch snorts.

Dean brushes by Haymitch, barely controlled anger dancing in his eyes.

"Be careful," he manages, barely meeting my eyes.

Dean kisses me briefly on the forehead before leading Haymitch across the district and into the forest.

I don't watch them leave. Instead, I head home, my quick pace and set jaw pushing even Peacekeepers' attention from me. I stop by my house, and grab a fistful of money. On my way back out, a small silhouette stops me in my tracks.

"Prim?"

My little sister sits quietly at my kitchen table, staring at me.

"You're going to go find Sam and Gale, aren't you?" She asks.

"Yes. We'll find them, little duck," I say, moving to embrace her.

"Do you know where they are, Katniss?" Prim asks.

"Not yet," I admit, holding Prim at arm's length, "but Haymitch and Dean are searching the woods, and I'm going to bribe some sellers at the Hob. We'll find them."

"Not if we find them first," Prim smiles.

Before I can fully register the contorted smile on Prim's face, her small hands wrap around my throat with inhuman strength. I fall back, Prim on top of me, her small knees pressing into my chest.

As I choke, I look up into Prim's eyes. They flash black.

I wrap my fingers around hers and attempt to loosen her grip, but she's too strong. Frantically, my other hand fumbles at my belt. My hand passes over a dagger, but even as my vision turns fuzzy, I can't bring myself to use it on my little sister. Instead, I unhook and open the Holy Water.

I sprayed some of the water from the small vial in Prim's face. She shrieks, releasing my throat as she recoils. I cough and gulp down air as I sit up, pushing myself away. I wield the Holy Water in one hand as the other fumbles at my belt again, but Prim's face steams from the acidic attack.

Finally, I pull the small, folded paper from my belt and begin to read.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas_."

Prim begins to wail, writhing on the floor. I can barely scrape the words from my throat.

" _Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica_ …"

Prim's small voice cries out.

"Katniss, please!"

Her eyes switch back and forth from loveless black to her own baby blue color. I continue chanting as the demon forces guttural screams from Prim's throat.

"… _audi nos_!" I scream.

A thick column of black smoke expels itself from Prim's mouth and nose, shooting down through the floor. Prim coughed and gagged as the last tendrils of smoke sunk into the floor.

"Prim," I say, crawling to her.

Prim sinks into my arms, trembling against my chest. I hold her, tears coating both of our cheeks.

"Come on, little duck," I say. "We're going to make sure that this never happens again."

"How?" She asks in a painfully small voice.

I half guide, half drag Prim across the street to the house she shares with Sam and my mother.

"Mom," I call as we bust in the front door.

"What happened?"

My mother's eyes and nose glow bright red from recent tears, but new worry stops her sobs.

"Prim was possessed," I say. "We have to go, now. I know how we can protect ourselves against it."

"How?" My mother asks, not protesting as I drag her outside by her arm.

"You're not going to like it," I say.

I take them across Twelve to the Hob. Neither of them have been in the Hob before. We pass Greasy Sae's bar, but I have one goal only in my mind.

We head into Ellen's corner of the Hob. Ellen is a feisty woman, hardened by the loss of her husband and the strict love for her daughter, Jo. She serves hard liquor and deals in the most illegal things, mostly secrets and lies.

"Ellen," I greet her with a nod.

"Katniss," she says, looking up from wiping the bar.

"This is my mother," I say flatly, "and my sister, Prim."

"I can see that," Ellen says curtly. "What makes you bring 'em around here?"

"We need something from you," I say. "And we need it to stay a secret."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Ellen smirks. "You know I got a high price for secrets, Katniss."

"I'll pay it," I say, laying my fistful of money on her bar. "Name your price."

"This oughta do nicely," Ellen says with a smile. "What can I do you for?"

"Tattoos," I say.

"Wow, Katniss," comes a voice from behind us, cutting off my mother's indignant protest. "I never thought you'd get inked."

I turn, and see the blonde curls, tight curves, and surly smile that keeps guys running to the Hob…and the shotgun that keeps them away.

"Jo," I say curtly.

Dean has told me about his past with Jo. She's one of the few rumors that were true. They were together for a time, but he ended it because he didn't want to hurt her. He did have feelings for her once, though. Of course, I can see why, but that doesn't stop a hard, hot discomfort from gripping the middle of my chest and dripping into my stomach. Her steely eyes mirror my feelings.

"Well," Ellen says, snapping us both out of it, "what kind of tattoo?"

I hand her my Mockingjay pin, the back of it face up.

"This symbol," I say. "On all three of us."

Ellen's hands shake as she holds the pin between her fingertips, looking at the symbol in horror.

"Where did you get this?"

"From Sam."

"Winchester?" Ellen asks.

"Yes," I say.

"Honey, you can't go around showing this to just anyone," Ellen says harshly.

"You know what it is?" I ask.

"More and more people do nowadays," Ellen says grimly.

"Dangerous times and all," Jo chimes in. "A girl's gotta protect herself, right, Katniss?"

I nod slowly, but keep my gaze on Ellen.

"Will you help us?" I ask. She nods.

"Lucky for you, I know someone," Ellen says. "Follow me. Watch the bar, Jo."

Jo's shotgun clicks twice in response, audibly shifting into the loaded position. I've never liked the brutality of guns. I usher my mother and Prim ahead of me, warily eyeing Jo as the bar door closes behind me.

Ellen leads us into a small hallway wedged between the edge of the Hob and the fence. I stop to listen, but thankfully, no electricity hums along the metal of the fence. Ellen snakes her body around a tree trunk, slipping between two trees that grow between the Hob and the fence. She bends down and scrapes the leaves and dirt off of what turns out to be a giant piece of circular metal sunk into the grown.

Ellen reaches down, grasps a small handle, and yanks it open. She looks around warily, and gestures up to go in. I head in first, climbing down a rusty metal ladder in the darkness.

"Katniss, this doesn't seem safe—" my mother begins, but I've already reached the bottom.

"Come on, Prim," I call softly.

Despite our mother's protests, Prim follows me down the long ladder. I help her off, then my mother, and wait for Ellen to take the lead again.

She leads us down a dimly lit concrete hallway, and to a dead end. Ellen strides up to the wall, however, and knocks six times: two slow, three fast, and one slow. A woman's voice comes from behind the wall.

"Password?"

" _Custos_ ," Ellen says.

After a moment of tense silence, a doorway cracks through the concrete of the wall in front of us, and swings inward. A tall, thin woman with bright red hair and intelligent green eyes surveys us.

"Ellen," she smiles. "Katniss, the girl on fire," she nods, "and who are these two?"

"My mother and sister," I say.

"They want ink," Ellen says. "You up for it?"

"Totally," says the woman. "I'm Charlie, by the way. Come in."

We step inside, treading carefully across a large, red throw rug. Bookcases line every wall, weapons displays dot the large, concrete space. Panels with screens, lights, knobs, and buttons line a back room area. A small kitchen is off to the right, and a hallway gapes on the other side of the kitchen.

"Well come on," Charlie says urgently, "come in."

"God's sakes, Charlie, they're not demons," Ellen huffs as we step down stone stairs toward a long table in the middle of the space.

"Can't be too careful," Charlie winks. "Devil's trap under the rug," she adds to me. "Very clever, I know."

"What is this place?" Prim asks.

"A bunker," Charlie answers. "A Men of Letters bunker, to be precise."

"Men of Letters?" I ask.

"They were an old organization that died out about fifty years into the Hunger Games that were apparently against girls being badass," Charlie says. "They fought demons and the Capitol and the Games in general."

"Do you live here?" My mother asks.

"Yep," Charlie says. "After mom and dad died, Ellen and Greasy Sae looked after me for a bit until we stumbled on this place. I got it up and running, hacked into the Capitol database, and erased myself from existence."

"You can do that?" I ask.

"Yep," Charlie smiles.

"How did your parents die?" Prim asks.

"Prim!"

"No, it's okay," Charlie assures me, kneeling down to meet Prim's eyes. "They tried to take my little brother and me away from this place. We got caught, just outside the fence. They pushed me and my brother into a thicket, and the Peacekeepers caught up to them. My brother ran out before I could stop him, and they killed him too."

"I'm sorry," Prim whispers.

"It's all right," Charlie says. "Now, I get to live for them. I have to."

Prim nods, unsure of what to say. After a moment, Charlie springs back up.

"Well," she sighs, "let's go get you some ink."

We follow Charlie down the hallway to a small room with a bed and what looks like a makeshift tattoo machine.

"Totally safe, I promise," Charlie says, pulling the waistband of her pants down slightly to reveal the anti-possession symbol tattooed on her right hip.

"Oh! Before we start, though," Charlie says, striding back out of the room, "I've got a surprise for you."

She's barely gone for a moment before she comes back, bouncing between her strides, a wide grin spread across her face.

Gale and Sam step into the room behind her.


	14. Chapter 14

"Gale," I say numbly, crossing the room in two strides.

Gale and I embrace hard. Emotion that neither of us can express moves between us.

"Hey, Catnip," Gale says, tightening his hold on me.

"I was worried," I say, stepping back out of his arms.

"What can I say?" Gale smiles. "I have to keep your life interesting, don't I?"

I can't help but smile at that.

My mother and Prim embrace Sam, and then Gale. I step to Sam's side as my mother worries over a series of cuts and bruises that adorn Gale's face and arms.

"I'm glad you're safe," I say, embracing Sam.

Sam's already more than a head taller than me, but I still consider him almost like a little brother to me. Aside from being Dean's brother, I feel for him because Sam has always been too kind, too trusting, for this world. His innocence is so similar to Prim's that it's painful to think of what caused the cuts and bruises that adorn his face, mirroring Gale's.

"Me, too," Sam says. "I'm glad you guys are okay."

"All right," Charlie says. "Wanna continue the family love fest while getting some mad ink?"

"You're getting tattooed?" Gale asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

"The protection symbol, yes," I say. "The anti-possession one."

"Good," Sam says. "Dean and I did that a while ago, and Gale got his yesterday."

"What?" Gale defends against my stare.

"Not like you to be a hypocrite," I say. "I thought you hated tattoos."

"Well, I want to be prepared," Gale answers

"So do we," Prim says, her small voice trembling.

"What?" Gale asks, glaring at me. "Katniss, she's just a kid."

"I was possessed, Gale," Prim says, tears brimming in her small, blue eyes. "I tried to kill Katniss."

"What?" Gale, Sam, and my mother ask at once.

I relay the story through the blinding pain of the tattoo. I lay on the bed, allowing Charlie to carve the protection symbol into my left side. The needles bite and sting, sharp pain making me twitch as she embeds the symbol in the skin over my ribcage, just under my armpit. No revealing Capitol dresses will show that part of me, and I like the idea of it being quite literally on my side, and so near my heart.

I tell Gale and Sam about the bloody mess that Dean and I walked in on at the gazebo. Both of their faces darken when I describe the scene, but Gale's shimmer with tears as his face contorts. Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. My mother moves to do the same, her emotional suppression kicking in as her face remains free of emotion. I look at my left side, and keep talking. I tell my tattoo how we searched everywhere for Sam and Gale, and how Prim attacked me.

"I could feel it," Prim whispers, bringing my eyes to her own. "I could feel the demon, inside my mind, in my thoughts. It made me do, and say, and think…awful things. It made me attack Katniss."

Prim's small sob nearly breaks my heart.

"Katniss brought me and Mom right here," she continues. "I don't ever want it to happen again."

"It won't," Charlie says, wiping my skin off one last time and covering it with a large bandage. "Katniss is all done. Your turn, Prim."

"Does it hurt?" Prim whispers.

"Not too badly," I lie.

It's taken a great amount of self-control to not allow the pain of the tattoo to show, but Prim has no such tolerance for pain. She whimpers and cries out as Charlie's needle touches her left thigh. Hearing Prim's pain is more than most of us can bear. For the sake of Prim's pride as well as our own emotions, Gale, Sam, Ellen, and I leave the room and wander back to the main room of the bunker.

"Poor Prim," Gale says.

I nod.

"Hey, where's Dean?" Sam asks. "I thought he came with you?"

"No, we split up after we searched your old house, remember?" I say.

"He's not back yet?" Sam asks.

"I don't know," I say. "I came straight here after the demon in Prim attacked me."

"We need to find him, and Haymitch," Sam says, suddenly anxious.

"Why, what's going on?" Gale asks, his dark eyebrows knitting together.

"Katniss, you told that demon where Dean and Haymitch went, when the demon was inside Prim," Sam says.

"Yeah," I say defensively, "before I knew she was possessed."

"I know, but now, that demon has been exorcised back to Hell," Sam says.

"Good," Gale says.

"Not good," Sam retorts. "The demon's had enough time by now to spread the word to the demons that are topside. They're probably hunting Dean and Haymitch right now."

"We have to go find them," I say, striding toward the door.

"I'll stay with them, you guys go," Ellen says, heading back toward my mother, Prim, and Charlie as Gale, Sam, and I depart.

"This way, Katniss," Gale says, grabbing my hand and leading me to one of the larger bookcases.

Sam presses on different books in a precise combination, and the bookcase slides sideways before us, revealing a gaping, dimly lit hallway.

Sam and Gale confidently take the lead, walking shoulder to shoulder at a pace that I have to jog to maintain. The hallway quickly turns into a labyrinth of large tunnels, taller than Sam and wide enough for the three of us to walk together. The tunnels contrast the bunker, dug out from dirt and barely smoothed down.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Beyond the fence," Sam says. "These tunnels lead all over Twelve, to very precise, hidden locations. This way takes us just outside the fence on the other side of the Victors' Village."

"That's handy," I say.

"Yeah, the Men of Letters were great," Sam says. "The journal led me to the Bunker. It also had a list of known hunters in Twelve. It was written in code. It took me a while, but once I cracked the code, I started gathering them and planning."

"Planning what?" I ask.

"How to overthrow the demons," Gale says, "and the Capitol."

"How'd you get involved with all this rebellion?" I ask.

"My mother knew about demons," Gale admits. "Sam came to ask her to join. My father, as it turns out, was a demon hunter."

"What?" I ask.

"There's more, Katniss," Gale says, pulling me to a stop.

Gale's eyes bore into mine, grief darkening their natural green hue.

"My father was a hunter," Gale begins, "but he was more than that."

"What do you mean?" I ask, strangely afraid of the answer.

Gale doesn't answer. I only tolerate his silence for a few moments, but they feel warped, stretched into several minutes.

"Gale, what do you know?" I press sharply. "What is it? What-"

"They orchestrated the mine explosion," Gale says bluntly. "To kill known hunters, including our fathers."

"What?" I ask again, numbly. My legs stop moving, forcing me to shaky halt.

"We have to keep moving," Sam says urgently.

My head spins, but I force my feet to comply as Gale slings an arm around me and pushes me onward.

"Yeah, I know," Gale says to me, talking quickly in an effort to distract my racing mind. "When I found out about the whole demon hunter thing, I couldn't believe it. I jumped right into it, to meeting with Sam, even though my mom hated it. Eventually, my whole family started coming. It started when Rory followed me to a meeting, then Vick came to the next one. Eventually, we were able to convince Mom that it's better to be prepared and know what's happening."

Gale's expression grows dark with guilt. His dry, cracked lips tremble. We stop talking.

Before long, we come to a tall ladder embedded in the wall of the tunnel. Sam climbs up quickly, Gale close behind. Steeling myself, I climb the rusty thing, accepting Gale's and Sam's helping hands near the top of it. They pull me up out of the ground and onto the forest floor.

We're in a particularly dense bit of forest, the metal covering leading into the tunnel disguised as the face of a large boulder.

"Don't let it shut," Sam says. "This one opens from the inside only."

I nod, and unsheathe one of the daggers from my belt. I carefully wedge it into the edge of the opening so that the boulder doesn't shut completely.

"Quiet," Gale warns.

Gale and I immediately snap into hunting mode, our feet barely whispering across the forest floor as we scan our surroundings for tracks. Sam walks beside us, his large feet snapping twigs and rustling leaves. I glare at him, but it's obvious that he's trying to walk quietly.

"Anything?" Sam whispers, much too loudly.

Gale and I both whip around to quiet him, but before we can say anything, Sam crumples down on one knee.

Mr. Mellark, the baker, stands over Sam, his eyes completely black. Gale, Sam, and I all react in unison. I draw a dagger from my belt, as Sam and Gale both pull pistols from their waistbands. Both shots ring out in the same moment. Gale's bullet sinks into Mr. Mellark's forehead, but Sam hadn't turned to face Mr. Mellark. Instead, Sam had shot between me and Gale. I turn as Mrs. Mellark's body crumples among the leaves.

Black smoke whirls around us for a moment, trying and failing to force its way in before seeping into the forest floor.

Gale and Sam speak again, in unison.

"Thanks," they say. Gale offers Sam a hand.

I stare just beyond Mrs. Mellark's body. My hunter's ears pick up a faint rustling sound. Rustling is not uncommon in the forest, but this is semi regular, controlled.

Someone is walking toward us, approaching behind a large tree on the other side of Mrs. Mellark's body.

I turn in place, whipping around to catch Gale's eye. He's heard it, too. He crouches down by Sam, taking aim. Confused, Sam follows suit, trying to see what we see. His mouth opens, but Gale's glare silences him.

With deliberate, trained motions, I move almost silently across the forest floor. I make it to the thick tree trunk. I can sense someone on the other side of it. I grip my knife in my hand. I know Sam and Gale have my back. Gale can sense when I will strike. I inhale, and step quickly around the tree, knife poised to attack a throat.

As I whip around the tree, hard, cool metal forces itself against my head, knocking it back slightly. My knife meets resistance, but the knockback stopped my from slicing into whomever's - or whatever's - throat is pressing against the blade.

"Katniss?"

I blink. Intense green eyes meet mine.

"Dean."

I lower my knife. He lowers his gun. He hugs me, hard, for just a moment, before holding me at arm's length and glaring at me.

"What happened?" He demands. "Why are you out here? I thought you were with Prim and your mom."

"Where's Haymitch?" I return, suddenly remembering his existence.

"If I'm allowed to walk around now," Haymitch drawls impatiently, walking up behind Dean. "Hi, princess," he adds, looking me up and down, before catching sight of Mrs. Mellark's body.

Dean follows his gaze, then snaps back to stare into my eyes again.

"Demons," I say, answering the questions before he asks. "Her and her husband. We killed them."

"We?" Dean asks.

I motion around the large tree trunk. Haymitch and Dean step around.

"Sam," Dean says, his voice both strained and relieved.

I come around to see Sam and Gale, guns now stowed, standing over Mr. Mellark. Sam and Dean are locked in a hard embrace as Haymitch tells Gayle how nice it is that he's not dead.

"We need to go," I say.

"And leave them?" Gale asks, gesturing to the baker and his wife.

"They're outside the fence," I answer. "They'll say they tried to run, or something. We don't need to hide them."

No one argues. We head back. I retrieve my knife from the hidden entrance as Sam catches Dean and Gale up on the Men of Letters bunker.

We make quick time, getting back to the bunker. Haymitch gets the anti-possession symbol tattooed on his lower back as everyone catches up with information. Ellen goes back to retreive Jo and close down her bar. They return hauling large pots of Greasy Sae's soup, and loaves of bread.

"They were already starting to loot the place," Ellen explained quietly.

The bread came from the bakery. We all eat in subdued silence at first.

Charlie instructs my mother on proper tattoo care. My mother nods and rubs her sore ribs. She had picked the placement to mirror mine. Prim had chosen her thigh because Charlie thought it would be less painful. Sam and Dean already had them on their chests, and Gale's day old tattoo was in the same place. Haymitch chose his lower back seemingly at random. Ellen and Jo has them on the insides of their right ankles, months old.

"All right," Dean says. "Anyone else have anything we wanna share, before we make a plan?"

"Well, let's start with who survived the attack at the gazebo, that we know of," Jo suggests.

"Right," Sam says, pained. "I made it out, and so did Gale. So did Ellen and Jo, and Charlie, obviously. Has anyone seen any other survivors?"

No one answers.

"Who do we know for sure is dead?" Gale asks.

A pregnant pause builds.

"All the other Hawthorns," Gale starts.

"Peeta Mellark," I say, though his name catches in my throat.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mellark," Dean supplies. My mother makes a strained sound.

"What about the other Mellark boys?" Haymitch asks. "There were three of them."

"All gone," Dean says. "I saw the bodies that night. Also, Mayor Undersee, his wife, his daughter, Madge."

"Delly Cartwright," I cut in. "And the Peacekeepers, Darius, Purnia, and Cray."

"Cray, The Head Peacekeeper?" Haymitch asks.

"Well," Dean says grimly, pushing his empty soup bowl away from him, "looks like all the good Peacekeepers are gone now. How convenient for the Capitol."

"Let's hope their replacements are as lenient as they were," Sam says.

"Yeah, spoiler alert," Dean says sarcastically, "they won't be."

A tense moment settles across the table.

"Good thing we're Victors," Dean says to me, "because all this law breaking that we all do? It stops now."

General protest sweeps the table. My mother and Prim stay silent.

"Dean's right," Sam says, effectively stunning everyone into silence. "We can't give them any reason to come after us. Breaking the law makes it easy for them to catch us and kill us, or worse."

"We can't let them know about this place," Charlie says.

"We can store all our illegal stuff here, and then no one comes in for a while," Jo suggests, grudgingly agreeing.

"Jo and I can keep an eye on it, make sure no one comes poking around this entrance," Ellen says. "The bookshelf only opens one way, so if we close that, there's only one way in. We can also stock some food and supplies in here, from the bar, slowly, to prepare."

"Prepare for what?" Prim pipes up, frightened.

"Prepare to hide," Sam says. "Just in case we have to. If one of us, or anyone we know and trust, isn't safe, then we can hide here."

"We all have to agree on it," Dean says. "We all have to know who's in here and why. From now on, this is our safe base. We protect this place, and its secrets, with our lives."

"We need to keep meeting," Gale says.

"No," Sam protests.

"Sam, we need to keep educating ourselves," Gale says. "The information you have in that journal is vital. We can meet, not as often, maybe every other night, but we need to keep meeting."

"I said no," Sam nearly spits, his face taut.

"Sammy, we need to meet," Dean says. "All right? Gale's right. This information is valuable, okay? I didn't believe it at first, and I'm sorry, but now you're the expert. It's your responsibility now to meet with us, to help us, to teach us how to survive-"

"Yeah, Dean?!" Sam interrupts fiercely. "And how did that work for the Mellarks?"

"Sam, you can't-" Dean starts.

"And Delly?" Sam presses on, rising to his feet.

"Sam-" Haymitch starts, leaning forward and extending a hand toward Sam from across the table.

"And Mayor Undersee, and his family," Sam continues.

"I know," Dean yells, rising to his feet, meeting Sam's intense gaze.

"And Hazelle and Ro-"

Gale grabs Sam by the front of his shirt the moment his mother's name reaches Sam's lips, and slams him into the monitors behind the table.

"DON'T," Gale bellows, "USE THEM AGAINST ME!"

Dean darts around the table and pulls Gale off Sam, preparing for a fight, but Gale stalks away. He ends up on the other side of the table from Sam and Dean, behind me.

"Don't you dare tell me that they wouldn't want us to keep learning," Gale says. "Because I know that. I know that my mother never wanted me involved with the demon hunting stuff. You can feel guilty for everyone else, Sam, for Delly and Madge and the baker and the mayor. But no one has any more right than I do to feel guilty about my mother and my brothers and sister-"

Gale loses it at the thought of Posy. He turns away from us, unable to keep from sobbing. I have never seen Gale this angry, or this upset.

I realize now that I have been standing. I sheath the knife I hadn't realized I'd drawn. I walk numbly to Gale and place my hand on his back. He shrugs it off.

He leaves. I watch him retreat down a hallway in the bunker and close a distant door

We agree to meet once a week, at the house that my mother, Prim, and Sam live in, under the guise of having dinner together. We agree to use the dinner for demon fighting lessons, bunker check-ins, and planning. Gale returns at the end of our discussion. He doesn't say another word.

"Boys," Ellen says, before everyone departs for the night, "no one should feel guilty. You didn't kill those people. The demons did."

"Everyone around this table has lost someone to demons," Jo says, he face harder than normal. "Everyone feels pain, and guilt. You're no different than us. We've all lost. We've all lost family."

The truth of this weighs on us for a moment.

"We're kind of like a big family now," Prim says. "We have been, ever since the games, but it's grown again."

She looks at Ellen, Jo, and Charlie. Everyone softens a bit before Prim continues, looking straight at me.

"You can't let us lose anyone else from this family."

I nod. Dean grabs my hand. His rough, familiar touch grounds me.

"That's not going to happen, Prim," he says. "No one in this room is going to let that happen. That's why we're doing all this."

"Let's kick some demon ass," Charlie says, taking a final drink in time with Haymitch.


End file.
